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OF 


LORD    BYRON; 


INCLUDING    HIS 


DON  JUAN-ALL  HIS  MINOR  POEMS, 


AND   THE    SCPPHESSED    PIECES   OF 


eain,  anU  tf)t  FIsion  oi  ^ntiQwunt, 


jlLt    COMPLETE. 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 


VOL.  I. 


Second  Edition, 


PHILADELPHIA: 

rUELIRHED   AT    TIIL    U'ASHINGTON   PRESS. 
J  829. 


CONTENTS 


or 


VOL.    I. 


Scours  ot  3Jl3lene00. 

Page 

On  leaving  Newstead  Abbey, T 

On  a  view  of  the  School  of  Harrow  on  the  hill, 8 

£pitaph  on  a  friend, 10 

A  Fragment, ib. 

The  Tear, 11 

Occasional  Prologue,    13 

On  the  Death  of  Mr.  Fox, 14 

Stanzas, 15 

The  first  Kiss  of  Love, 16 

ToM 17 

To  VV^oman, ib. 

To  M.  S.  G 18 

To  a  beautiful  Quaker,    19 

To  Mary  on  receiving  her  Picture, 21 

Love's  last  Adieu, 22 

To  Marion,  , 24 

Oscar  of  Alva, 25 

Translations,  Imitations,  &c. 34 

Fugitive  Pieces,  &c 50 

The  Death  of  Calmur  &  Orla,  in  imitation  of  Macpherson's 

Ossian,   76 

ToE.  N.  L.  Esq 79 

English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers, 85 

Preface  to  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage, 121 

To  lantbe, 123 


jv.  CONTENTS. 

CI)  (Itre  J^arolK's  Dil^ilmase. 

Canto  1 125 

Canto  II 149 

Canto  III i'-2 

Canto  IV 203 

Notes,  &c 244 


The  Giaour, 201 

Notes  to  the  Giaour,  321 

To  Thomas  Moore,  Esq 329 


CJe  Corsair* 


Canto  1 331 

Canto  II 346 

Canto  III 360 

Notes  to  the  Corsair,   377 


Lara, 383 

Note  to  Lara,    414 

The  Bride  of  Abydos, 419 

Notes  to  the  Bride  of  Abydos,    449 

The  Seigeof  Corinth, 452 

Notes  to  the  Seige  of  Corinth,  484 

Parisina,    - 489 

Notes  to  Parisina,    ^03 

The  Prisoner  of  Chilon, 507 

Notes  to  the  Prisoner  of  Chilon,    519 

Beppo,  a  Venetian  Story,    523 

Notes  to  Beppo,    544 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


PREFACE. 


wtMAfvymwi/wAi 


IN  submilting  to  tlie  Public  eye  the  following  collection,  I 
have  not  only  to  combat  the  difficulties  that  writers    of  verse 
generally  encounter,  but  may  incur  the   charge  of  presump- 
tion,   for   obiruding   myself  on    the    world,    when,    without 
doubt,  I    might    be,  at  my  age,    more    usefully  employed. 
These  productions  are   tlie  fruits  of  the  lighter  tiours  of  a 
young  man  who  has  lately    completed  his   nineteenth  year. 
As  they  bear  the  internal  evidence  of  a  boyish  naind,  this  is, 
perhaps,  unnecessary  information.     Some  few   were  written 
during  the  disadvantages  of  illness,  and  depression  of  spirits  ; 
Hinder  the  former  influence,  "  Childish   Recollections,"  in 
particular,    were    composed.      This    consideration,  though  it 
eaniiot  excite  the  voice  of  praise,  may,  at  least,  arrest  the  arm 
of  censure.     A  considerable  portion  of  these  Poems  has  been 
privately  printed,  at  the  request,  and  for  the  perusal,  of  my 
friends.     I  am  sensible  that  the  partial,  and,  frequently,  inju- 
dicious admiration  of  a  social  circle,  is   not  the  criterion  by 
which  poetical  genius  is  to  be  estimated,  yet,  "  to  do  greatly"' 
we  must  "  dare  greatly  !"  and   I   have   hazarded  my  reputa- 
tion and  feelings  in  publishing  this  volume.     "  I  have  pass'd 
the   Rubicon,"   and  must  stand   or  fall  by  the  "  cast  of  the 
die."     In  the  latter  event,  I  shall  submit  without  a  murmur, 
for,  though  not  without  solicitude   for  the  fate  of  these  effu* 
sions,   my   expectations  are    by   no  means   sanguine.     It   is 
probable  that   I  may  have  dared  much,   and  done  little  ;  for, 
in  the  words  of  CnwpEft,  "  It  is  one  thing  to  write  what  may 
please  our  friends,  who,  because  they  are  such,   are  apt  to  be 
a  little  biassed  in  our  favour,  and  another,  to  write  what  may 
please  every  body,  because  they  who  have  no  connection  with,  or 
even  knowledge  of  the   author,  will  be  sure  to  find  fault  if 
they  can."     To  the  truth  of  this,  however,   I  do  not  wholly 


iv  PREFACE, 

subscribe ;  on  the  contrary,  I  feel  convinced  that,  these  trifles 
will  not  be  treated  with  injustice.      Their  merit,  if  they  possess 
any,  will  be  liberally  allowed  ;  their  nunnerous  faults,  on    the 
other  hand,  cannot  expect  that  favour,  which  has  been  denied 
to  others,  of  maturer  years,  decided  character,  and  far  greater 
ability.     I  have  not  aimed  at  exclusive  originality,  still  less 
have  I  have  studied  any  particular  model  for  imitation;  some 
translations  are  given,  of  which  many  are  paraphrastic.      In 
the  original  pieces,  there  may  appear  a  casual  coincidence  with 
authors  whose  works  I  have  been  accustomed  to  read,  but  I 
have  not  been  guilty  of  intentional  plagiarism.     To  produce 
any  thing  entirely  new,  in  an  age  so  fertile  in  rhyme,  would 
be  a  Herculean  task,  as  every  subject  has  already  been  treated 
to  its  utmost  extent.  —  Poetry,  however,  is  not  my  primary 
vocation  ;  to  divert  the  dull  moments  of  indisposition,  or  the 
monotony  of  a  vacant  hour,  urged  me  "  to  this  sin ;"  little 
can  be  expected  from  so  unpromising  a  muse.     My  wreath, 
scanty  as  it  must  be,  is  all  I  shall  derive  from  these  produc- 
tions ;  and  I  shall  never  attempt  to  replace  its  fading  leaves, 
or  pluck  a  single  additional  sprig  from  groves,  where  I  am,  at 
best,  an  intruder.      Though  accustomed,  in  my  younger  days, 
to  rove  a  careless  mountaineer  on  the  Highlands  of  Scotland, 
I  have  not,  of  late  years,  had  the  benefit  of  such  pure  air,  or 
so  elevated  a  residence,   as  might  enable  me  to  enter  the  lists 
with  genuine  bards,  who  have  enjoyed  both  these  advantages. 
But  they  derive  considerable  fame,   and  a  few,  not  less  pro- 
from  their  productions,   while   I   shall  expiate  my  rashness, 
as  an  interloper,  certainly  without  the   latter,  and  in  all  pro- 
bability, with   a  very  slight  share  of  the  former.      I  leave  to 
others  "  virum  volitare  per  ora."     I  look  to  the  few  who  will 
hear  with  patience  "dulce  est  desipere  in  loco."— To  the  for- 
mer worthies,  I  resign,  without  repining,  the  hope  of  immor. 
tality,  and  content  myself  with  the  not  very  magnificent  pros- 
pect, of  ranking  "  amongst  the  mob  of  gentlemen  who  write," 
my  readers  must  determine  whether  I  dare  say   "  with  ease," 
or  the  honour  of  a  posthumous  page  in    "  The  Catalogue  of 
Koyal  and  Noble  Authors,"  a  work  to  which  the  Peerage  is 
under  infinite  obligations,  inasmuch  as  many  names  of  consi- 
derable lengtii,  sound,  and  antiquity,  are  thereby  rescued  from 
the   obscurity  which  unluckily  overshadows  several   volumi- 
nous productions  of  their  illustrious  bearers. 

With  slight  hopes,  and  some  fears,  I  publish  this  first,  and 
last  attempt.  To  the  dictates  of  young  ambition,  may  be 
ascribed  many  actions  more  criminal,  and  equally  absurd.  To 
a  few  of  my  own  age,  the  contents  may  afford  amusement,  I 
trust,  they  will,  at  least,  be  found  harmless.     It  is  highly  im- 


PREFACE.  V 

probable,  from  my  situation,  and  pursuits  hereafler,  that  I 
should  ever  obtrude  myself  a  second  time  on  the  Public  ;  nor 
even,  in  the  very  doubtlul  event  of  present  indulgence,  shall  I 
be  tempted  to  commit  a  future  trespass  of  the  same  nature. 
The  opinion  of  Dr.  Johnson  on  the  Poems  of  a  noble  relatioR 
of  mine,*  "  That  when  a  man  of  rank  appeared  in  the  cha- 
•'  racier  of  an  author,  his  merit  should  be  handsomely  ac- 
"  knowledged,"  can  have  little  weight  with  veibal,  and  still 
less  with  periodical  censors,  but  were  it  otherwise,  I  should 
be  loth  to  avail  myself  of  the  privilege,  and  would  rather  in- 
cur the  bitterest  censure  of  anonymous  criticism,  than  triumph 
in  honors  granted  solely  to  a  title. 

*  The  Earl  of  Carlisle,  whose  worts  have  long  received 
the  meed  of  public  applause,  to  which,  by  their  intrinsic 
worth,  they  were  well  intitled. 


t,^^ 


A 

SERIES  OF  POEMS, 
ORIGINAL  AND  TRANSLATED. 


ON  LEAVING  NEWSTEAD  ABBE\, 


AVhy  dost  thou  build  the  hall.  Son  of  the  winged  days  ?  Thou  lookesc" 
ftom  thy  tower  to-day,  yet  a  few  years,  and  the  blast  of  the  desart  comes, 
it  howls  in  thy  empty  court.  Ossu:*. 


THRO'  thybattlemetJts,  Newstead,  the  hollow  winds  whistle  ; 

Thou,  the  hall  of  my  fathers  art  gone  to  decay ; 
In  thy  once  snniiing  garden,  the  hemlock  and  thistle 

Have  choak'd  up  the  rose,  which  late  bloom'd  in  the  way. 

Of  the  mail-cover'd  Barons,  who,  proudly  to  battle, 
Led  their  vassals  from  Europe  to  Palestine's  plain, 

The  escutcheon  and  shield,  which  with  ev'ry  blast  rattle, 
Are  the  only  sad  vestiges  now  that  remain. 

No  more  doth  old  Robert,  with  harp-stringing  numbers, 
Raise  aflame  in  the  breast,  for  the  war-laurell'd  wreath  ; 

Near  Askalon's  towers,  John  of  Horision*  slumbers, 
Unnerv'd  is  the  hand  of  his  minstrel,  by  death. 

Paul  and  Hubert  too  sleep,  in  the  valley  of  Cressy, 
For  the  safety  of  Edward  and  England  they  fell ; 

My  fathfs  !  the  tears  of  your  country  redress  you  ; 

How  you  fought !  how  you  died  !  still  her  annals  can  telh 

•  Horiston  Castle,  in  Derbyshire,  an  ancient  seat  of  the 
Byron  family. 


8  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

On  Marston,*  with  Rupert, f  'gainst  traitors  contending, 
Four  broihers  enrich'd,  with  their  hlood,    the  bleak  field  ; 

For  the  rights  of  a   monarcl),  their  country  defendiug^ 
Titl  death  their  attachment  to  royalty  seal'd. 

Shades  of  heroes,  farewell  !   your  descendant,  departing 
From  the  seat  of  his  ancestors,  bids  you  adieu  ! 

Abroad,  or  at  home,   your  remembrance  imparling 
New  courage,  he'll  think  upon  glory,  and  you. 

Though  a  tear  dim   his  eye,  at  this  sad  separation, 
'Tis  nature,  not  fear,  that  excites  his  regret  ; 

Far  distant  he  goes,  with  the  same  emulation. 
The  fame  of  bis  fathers  he  ne'er  can  forget. 

That  fame,  and  that  memory,  still  will  he  cherish, 
He  vows,  that  he   ne'er  will  disgrace  your  renown  j 

Like  you  will  he  live,  or  like  you   will    he  perish  ; 

When  decay'd  may  he  mingle  his  dust  with  your  own. 

I  SOS, 


LINES 

OK  A  DISTANT  VIEW  OF  THE  VILLAGE  AND  SCHOOL  01' 
HARROW,    ON   THE  HILL. 


Ob  !  mihi  prsteritos  referat  si  Jupiter  annos. 

YE  scenes  of  ray  childhood,  whose  lov'd  recollection. 

Embitters  the  present,  compared  with  the  past ; 
"Where  science  first  dawn'd  on  the  powers  of  reflection. 

And  friendships  were  form'd,  too  romantic  to  last. 

2. 
Where  fancy,  yet,  joys  to  retrace  t'ne  resemblance. 

Of  comrades,  in  friendship  and  mischief  allied  ; 
How  welcome  to  me,  your  ne'er  fading  remembrance. 

Which  rests  in  the  bosom,  though  hope  is  deny'd. 

*  The  baule  of  Marston  Moor,  where  the  adherents  of 
Charles   I.   were  deflated. 

f  Son  of  the  Elector  Palaiine,  and  related  to  Charles  1, 
He  afterwards  commanded  the  fleit,  in  the  reign  of  CharUs 
the  Second. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  9 

3. 
Again  I  revisit  the  hills  where  we  sported. 

The  streams,  where  we  swam,  and  the  fields  where  we  fought 
The  school,  where  loud  warn'd,  by  the  bell,   we  resorted, 
To  pore  o'er  the  precepts  by  Pedagogues  taught. 

4. 
Again  I  behold,  where  for  hours  I  have  ponder'd. 

As  reclining,  at  eve,  on  yon  tombstone  I  lay  ; 
Or  round  the  steep  brow  of  the  Churchyard  I  wander'd, 
To  catch  the  last  gleam  of  the  sun's  setting  ray. 

5. 
I  once  more  view  the  room,  with  spectators  surrounded, 

Where,  as  Zanga,  I  trod  on  Alonzo  o'erthrown  ; 
While,  to  swell  my  young  pride,  such  applauses  resounded, 
I  fancied  that  Mossof  *  himself  was  outshone. 

6. 
Or,  as  Lear,  I  pour'd  forth  the  deep  imprecation, 

By  my  daughters,  of  kingdom  and  reason  dcpriv'dj 
Till,  fir'd  by  loud  plaudits,  and  self  adulation, 
I  regarded  myself,  as  a  Garrick  reviv'd. 

7. 
Ye  dreams  of  my  boyhood,  how  much  I  regret  you, 

Unfaded  your  memory  dwells  in  my  breast ; 

ThougETsad  and  deserted,  I  ne'er  can  forget  you, 

Your  pleasures  may  still  be,  in  fancy,  possest. 

8. 
To  Ida,  full  oft  may  remembrance  restore  rae, 

While  Fate  shall  the  shades  of  the  future  unroll. 
Since  Darkness  o'ershadows  the  prospect  before  me, 
More  dear  is  the  beam  of  the  past  to  my  soul. 

9. 
But,  if  through  the  course  of  the  years  which  await  me. 

Some  new  scene  of  pleasure  should  open  to  view, 
I  will  say,  while  with  rapture  the  thought  shall  elate  me, 
"  Oh  !  tuch  were  the  days  which  my  infancy  knew. 

1806. 


*  Mossop,  a  cotemporary  of  Garrick,  famous  for  his  per- 
formance of  Zanga,  iu  Young's  tragedy  of  the  Revenge. 


10  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

EPITAPH  ON  A  FRIEND. 


AffTTjp  irpiv  fxtv  eXa^wicr  evi  fuoiuiv  'twoc. 

Lazrtid*. 


OH  !  Friend  !  for  ever  lov'd,  for  ever  dear  ! 
What  fruitless  tears  have  bath'd  tby  honour'd  bier! 
What  sighs  re-echo'd  to  thy  parting  breath, 
While  thou  wast  struggling  in  the  pangs  of  death ! 
Could  tears  retard  the  tyrant  in  his  course; 
Could  sighs  avert  his  dart's  relentless  force; 
Could  youth  and  virtue  claim  a  short  delay, 
Or  beauty  charm   the  spectre  from  his  prey; 
Thou  still  bad'st  lived,  to  bless  my  aching  sight, 
Thy  comrade's  honour,  and  thy  friend's  delight; 
If,  yet,  thy  gentle  spirit  hoTfr  nigh 
The  spot,  where  now  thy  mould'ring  ashes  lie. 
Here,  wilt  thou  read,  recorded  on  my  heart, 
A  grief  too  deep  to  trust  the  sculptor's  art. 
No  marble  marks  thy  couch  of  lowly  sleep, 
But  living  statues,  there,  are  seen  to  weep; 
Affliction's  semblance  bends  not  o'er  thy  tomb, 
AflBiction's  self  deplores  thy  youthful  doom. 
What  though  thy  sire  lament  his  failing  line, 
A  father's  sorrows  cannot  equal  mine  ! 
Though  none  like  thee,   his  dying  hour  will  cheer, 
Yet  other  oflspring  soothe  his  anguish  here; 
But,  who  with  me  shall  hold  thy  former  place? 
Thine  image,  what  new  friendship  can  efface? 
Ah  !  none  I  a  father's  tears  will  cease  to  flow, 
Time  will  assuige  an  infant  brother's  woe; 
To  all,  save  one,  is  consolation  known. 
While  solitary  Friendship  sighs  alone. 

1803. 


A  FPvAGMENT. 

WHEN,  to  their  airy  hall,  my  Fa'.hers'  voiee. 
Shall  call  my  spirit,  joyful  in  tht-ir  choice; 
When,  pois'd  upon  the  gale,  ray  form  shall  ride, 
Or,  dark  in  mist,  de&ccnd  the  mountain's  side  ; 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  11 

Oh  !  may  my  shade  behold  no  sculptur'd  urns, 

To  mark  the  spot,  where  earth  to  earth  returns  : 

No  lengthen'd  scroll  of  virtue  and  renown  ; 

My  epitaph  shall  be,  my  name  alone  : 

If  that  with  honour  fail  to  crown  my  clay, 

Oh  !  may  no  other  fame  my  deeds  repay  ; 

That,  only  that,  shall  single  out  the  spot, 

By  that  remember'd,  or  with  that  forgot.  1 803. 


THE  TEAR. 


O  lachrymarum  fons,  tenero  sacroi 
Ducentium  ortus  ex  animo ;  quater 
Felix  !  in  imo  qui  scatentem 
Pec: ore  te,  pia  Nymj.ha,  sensit.— Ghat. 


WHEN  Fiiendship  or  Love 

Our  sympathies  move  ; 
When  Truth,  in  a  glance,  should  appear, 

The  lips  may  beguile, 

With  a  dimple  or  smile. 
But  the  test  of  affeciion  's  a  Tear. 
2. 

Too  oft  is  a  smile 

But  the  hypocrite's  wile, 
To  mask  detestution,  or  fear  ; 

Give  me  the  soft  sijih, 

Whilst  the  soul-telling  eye 
Is  dimm'd,  for  a  time,  with  a  Tear. 
3. 

Mild  Charity's  glow. 

To  us  mortals  below. 
Shows  the  soul  fiotn  barbaritj  clear; 

Compassion  will  mell. 

Where  this  virtue  is  felt, 
And  its  dew  ia  dili'us'd  in  a  Tear. 
4. 

The  man  doom'd  to  sail, 

Wiih  llie  blast  of  the  gale, 
Through  billows  Atlantic  to  steer, 

As  he  bends  o'er  the  wave, 

Which  may  soon  be  his  grave. 
The  green  sparkles  bright  with  a  Tear. 


12  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

5. 

The  Soldier  braves  death. 
For  a  fanciful  wreath, 
In  Glory's  romantic  career  ; 
But  he  raises  the  foe, 
When  in  battle   laid  low, 
And  bathes  ev'ry  wound  with  a  Tear. 
6. 
If,  with  high-bounding  pride. 
He  return  to  his  bride. 
Renouncing  the  gore-crimson'd  spear; 
All  his  toils  are  repaid. 
When,  embracing  the  maid. 
From  her  eyelid  he  kisses  the  Tear,  » 
7. 
Sweet  scene  of  my  youth. 
Seat  of  Friendship  and  Truth, 
Where  Love  chas'd  each  fast-fleeting  year  j 
Loth  to  leave  thee,  I  mourn'd, 
For  a  last  look  I  turned, 
But  thy  spire  was  scarce  seen  through  a  Tear. 
8. 
Though  my  vows  I  can  pour. 
To  my  Mary  no  more. 
My  Mary,  to  Love  once  so  dear  ; 
In  the  shade  of  her  bow'r, 
I  remember  the  hour, 
She  rewarded  those  vows  with  a  Tear. 
9. 
By  another  possest, 
May  she  live  ever  blestj 
Her  name  still  my  heart  must  revere; 
With  a  sigh  I  resign. 
What  I  once  thought  was  mine. 
And  forgive  her  deceit  with  a  Tear. 
10. 
Ye  friends  of  my  heart. 
Ere  from  you  I  depart, 
This  hope  to  my  breast  is  most  near; 
If  again  we  shall  meet, 
In  this  rural  retreat, 
May  we  meet,  as  we  part,  witli  a  Tear. 
II. 
When  my  soul  wings  her  flight. 
To  the  regions  of  night. 
And  my  corse  shall  recline  on  its  bier ; 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  13 

As  ye  pass  by  the  tomb, 

Where  my  ashes  consume, 
Oil  !  moibten  their  dust  with  a  Tear. 
12. 

May  no  marble  bestow 

The  splendour  of  woe, 
Which  the  diildren  of  vanity  rear; 

No  fiction  of  fame 

Shall  blazon  my  name, 
All  I  ask,  all  I  wish,  is  a  Tear. 

1806. 


^frt^^ff^^^ 


AN  OCCASIONAL  PROLOGUE, 

DELIVERED  PREVIOUS  TO  THE  PERFORMANCE  OF  "  THE  WHEEL  OP 
FORTUNE,"    AT  A   PRIVATE  THEATRE, 

SINCE,  the  refinement  of  this  polish'd  age 
Has  swept  immoral  raillery  from  the  stage; 
•Since,  taste  has  now  expung'd  licentious  wit, 
Which  stamp'd  disgrace  on  all  an  author  writ  ; 
Since,  now,  to  please  with  purer  scenes  we  seek. 
Nor  dare  to  call  the  blush  from  Beauty's  cheek  ; 
Oh  !  let  the  modest  Muse  some  pity  claim, 
And  meet  indulgence,  though  she  find  not  fame. 
Still,  not  for  her  alone,  we  wish  respect. 
Others  appear  more  conscious  of  defect ; 
To-night,  no  vet'ran  Roscii  you  behold, 
In  all  the  arts  of  scenic  action  old  ; 
No  Cooke,  no  Kemble,  can  salute  you  here, 
No  SiDDONS  draw  the  sympathetic  tear  ; 
To  night,  you  throng  to  witness  the  debut. 
Of  embryo  Actors,  to  the  drama  new  ; 
Here,  then,  our  almost  unfiedg'd  wings  we  try  ; 
Clip  not  our  pinions,  ere  the  birds  can  fly  ; 
Failing  in  this  our  first  attempt  to  soar. 
Drooping,  alas  !   we  fall  to  rise  no  more. 
Not  one  poor  trembler,  only,  fear  betrays. 
Who  hopes,  yet  almost  dreads,  to  meet  your  praise, 
But  all  our  Dramatis  Persona;  wait, 
In  fond  suspense,  this  crisis  of  their  fate. 
No  venal  views  our  progress  can  retard. 
Your  generous  plaudits  are  our  sole  reward  ; 
For  these,  each  Hero  all  his  power  displays. 
Each  timid  Heroine  shrinks  before  your  gaze  : 

B 


14  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

Surely,  the  last  will  some  protection  find, 
None,  to  the  softer  sex,  can  prove  unkind  ; 
Whilst  Youth  and  Beauty  form  the  female  shield^ 
The  sternest  Censor  to  the  fair  must  yield. 
Yet,  should  our  feeble  efforts  nought  avail. 
Should,  after  all,  our  best  endeavours  fail ; 
Still,  let  some  mercy  in  your  bosoms  live, 
And,  if  you  can't  applaud,  at  least  forgive. 


•f<-^^^^^^^^<^ 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MR.  FOX. 

THE    FOLLOWING    ILLIBERAL    IMPROl^PTU    APPEARED    IN    A 
MORNING   PAl'ER. 

"  OUR  Nation's  foes  lament  on  Fox's  death, 
*'  But  bless  the  hour,  when  Pitt  resign'd  his  breath  ; 
♦'  These  feelings  wide,  let  Sense  and  Truth  undue, 
"  We  give  the  palm,  where  Justice  points  it  due." 


TO  WHICH  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THESE  TIECES,  SENT  THE   FiJtLOWING 

REPLY. 

Ob  !  factious  viper  I  whose  envenom 'd  tooth. 
Would  mangle  still  the  dead,  perverting  truth  ; 
What,  tho'  our  "  nation's  foes"  lament  the  fate, 
With  generous  feeling,  of  the  good  and  great ; 
Shall  dastard  tongues,  essay  to  blast  the  name 
Of  him,  whose  meed  exists  in  endless  fame? 
When  Pitt  expir'd,  in  plenitude  of  power, 
Though  ill  success  obscur'd  his  dyirg  hour, 
Pity  her  dewy  wings  before  him  spread, 
For  noble  spirits  "  war  not  with  the  dead," 
His  friends,  in  tears,  a  last  sad  requiem  gave, 
As  all  his  errors  slumber'd  in  the  grave  ; 
He  sunk,  an  Atlas  bending  'neath  the  weight 
Of  cares  o'erwhelming  our  conflicting  state  ; 
When,  lo  !   a  Hercules,  in  Fox,  appear'd, 
Who,  for  a  time,  the  ruiii'd  fabric  rear'd  ; 
He,  too,  is  fall'n,  who  Britain's  loss  supplied, 
With  him,  our  fast  reviving  hopes  have  died 
Not  one  great  people,  only,  raise  his  urn, 
All  Europe's  far  extended  regions  mourn. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  15 

«  These  feelings  wide,  let  Sense  and  Truth  undue, 
"  To  give  the  palm,  where  Justice  points  it  due;" 
Yet,  let  not  canker'd  calumny  assail. 
Or  round  our  statesman  wind  lier  gloomy  veil. 
Fox  !  o'er  whose  corse  a  mourning  world  must  weep, 
Whose  dear  remains  in  bonour'd  marble  sleep. 
For  whom,  at  last,  e'en  hostile  nations  groan, 
While  friends  and  foes,  alike,  his  talents  own. 
Fox  !  shall,  in  Britain's  future  annals,  shine, 
Nor  e'en  to  Pitt,  the  patriot's  palm  resign  ; 
Which  Envy,  wearing  Candour's  sacred  mask. 
For  Pitt,  and  Pitt  alone,  has  dar'd  to  ask. 


•r**^*  rfV-^i^V^i^VW** 


STANZAS  TO  A  LADY, 

WITH  THE  POEMS  OF  CAMOENS. 

THIS  votive  pledge  of  fond  esteem, 

Perhaps,  dear  girl !  for  me  thou'lt  prize; 
It  sings  of  love's  enchanting  dream, 

A  theme  we  never  can  despise. 
2, 
Who  blames  it,  but  the  envious  fool. 

The  old  and  disappointed  maid  ? 
Or  pupil  of  the  prudish  school, 

In  single  sorrow,  doom'd  to  fade? 
3. 
Then  read,  dear  girl,  with  feeling  read, 

For  thou  wilt  ne'er  be  one  of  those  ; 
To  thee,  in  vain,  I  shall  not  plead, 

In  pity  for  the  poet's  woes. 
4. 
He  was,  in  sooth,  a  genuine  bard ; 

His  wag  no  faint  fictitious  flame  ; 
Like  his,  may  Love  be  thy  reward ; 

But  not  thy  haples?  fate  the  same. 


It  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


THE  FIRST  KISS  OF  LOVE. 


ANACRlOiT. 


^^ji^^-f^^^  iAA#^i^ 


AWAY,  with  your  fictions  of  flimsy  romance, 

Those  tissues  of  falsehood  which  Folly  has  wove ; 
Give  me  the  mild  beam  of  the  soul-breathing  glance, 

Or  the  rapture  which  dwells  on  the  first  kiss  of  love, 
2. 
Ye  rhymers,  whose  bosoms  with  fantasy  glow, 

Whose  pastoral  passions  are  made  for  the  grove  ; 
From  what  blest  inspiration  your  sonnets  would  flow, 

Could  you  ever  have  tasted  the  flrst  kiss  of  lovf. 
3. 
If  Apollo  should  e'er  his  assistance  refuse, 

Or  the  Nine  be  dispos'd  from  your  service  to  rove, 
Invoke  them  no  more,  bid  adieu  to  the  muse, 

And  try  the  effect  of  the  first  kiss  of  love. 
4. 
1  hate  you,  ye  cold  compositions  of  art, 

Tho'  Prudes  may  condemn  me,  and  bigots  reprove; 
I  court  the  effusions,  that  spring  from  the  heart. 

Which  throbs,  with  delight,  to  the  first  kiss  of  love. 
5. 
Your  shepherds,  your  flocks,  those  fantastical  themes, 

Perhaps,  may  amuse,  yet  they  never  can  move  ; 
Arcadia  displays  but  a  region  of  dreams, 

What  are  visions  like  these,  to  the  first  kiss  ef  love  ? 
6. 
Oh  !  cease  to  affirm,  that  man,  since  his  birth. 

From  Adam,  till  now,  has  with  wretchedness  strove  j 
Some  portion  of  Paradise  still  is  on  earth. 

And  Eden  revives,  in  the  first  kiss  of  love. 
7. 
When  age  chills  the  blood,  when  our  pleasures  are  past. 

For  years  fleet  away  with  the  wings  of  the  dove ; 
The  dearest  remembrance  will  still  be  the  last, 

Our  sweetest  memorial,  the  first  kiss  of  love. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  17 


TO  M. 


OH  !  did  those  eyes,  instead  of  fire, 

With  bright,  but  mild  affection  shine  ; 
Though  they  might  kindle  less  desire. 

Love,  more  than  mortal,  would  be  thine. 
2. 
For  thou  art  form'd  so  heav'nly  fair, 

Howe'er  those  orbs  may  wildly  beam. 
We  must  admire,  but  still  despair; 

That  fatal  glance  forbids  esteem. 
3. 
When  nature  stamp'd  thy  beauteous  birth. 

So  much  perfection  in  thee  shone. 
She  fear'd,  that,  too  divine  for  earth, 

The  skies  might  claim  thee  for  their  own. 
4. 
Therefore,  to  guard  her  dearest  work. 

Lest  angels  might  dispute  the  prize, 
She  bade  a  secret  lightning  lurk. 

Within  those  "■•jce  celestial  eyes. 
5. 
These  might   the  boldest  sylph  appal, 

Whew  gleaming  with  meridian  blaze ; 
Thy  beauty  must  enrapture  all. 

But,  who  can  dare  tliine  ardent  gaze? 
6. 
'Tis  said,  that  Berenice's  hair. 

In  stars  adorns  the  vault  of  heaven  ; 
But  they  would  ne'er  permit  thee  there. 

Thou  would'st  so  far  outshine  the  seven. 
7. 
For  did  those  eyes  as  planets  roll, 

Thy  sister  lights  would  scarce  appear; 
E'en  suns,  which  systems  now  control. 

Would  twinkle  dimly  through  their  sphere. 

180G. 


*/,«>yAVAM/./>VJ« 


TO  WOMAN. 


WOMAN,  experience  might  have  told  me. 
That  all  must  love  thee,  who  behold  thee ; 
Surely,  experience  might  have  taught, 
Thy  firmest  promises  are  nought ; 

£2 


18  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

But,  plac'd  in  all  thy  charms  before  me, 

All  I  forget,  but  to  adore  thee. 

Oh  Memory  !   thou  choicest  blessing. 

When  join'd  with  hope,  when  still  possessing  j 

But  how  much  curst  by  every  lover. 

When  hope  is  fled,  and  passion  's  over. 

Woman,  that  fair  and  fond  deceiver. 

How  prompt  are  striplings  to  believe  her; 

How  throbs  the  pulse,  when  first  we  view 

The  eye,  that  rolls  in  glossy  blue  ; 

Or  sparkles  black,  or  mildly  throws 

A  beam  from  under  hazel  brows  j 

How  quick  we  credit  every  oath. 

And  Lear  her  plight  the  willing  troth  ; 

Fondly  we  hope,  'twill  last  for  aye, 

When,  lo !   she  changes  in  a  day  : 

This  record  will  for  ever  stand, 

"  Woman,  thy  vows  are  trac'd  in  sand."* 


TO  M.  S.'G. 

WHEN  I  dream  that  you  love  me,  you'll  surely  forgiw; 

Extend  not  your  anger  to  sleep ; 
For,  in  visions  alone,  your  affectiou  can  live, 

I  rise,  and  it  leaves  me  to  weep. 

2> 
Then,  Morpheus !   envelope  my  faculties  fast, 

Shed  o'er  me  your  languor  benign  ; 
Should  the  dream  of  to-night,  but  resemble  the  last. 

What  rapture  celestial  is  mine. 

3. 
They  tell  us  that  slumber,  the  sister  of  death, 

Mortality's  emblem  is  given  ; 
To  fate  how  I  long  to  resign  my  frail  breath,. 

If  this  be  a  foretaste  of  Heaven. 
4. 
Ah  !   frown  not,  sweet  lady,  unbend  your  soft  brow. 

Nor  deem  me  too  happy  in   this ; 
If  I  Ein  in  my  dream,  I  atona  for  it  now. 

Thus  doom'd  but  to  gaze  upon  bliss. 


*  The  last  line  is  almost  a,  liter<il  translation  from  a  Spaniiib: 
proTtrb. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  19 


Though  in  visions,  sweet  lady,  perhaps  you  may  smile, 

Oh!   think  not  my  penance  deticitnt; 
When  dreams  of  your  presence  my  slumbers  beguile, 

To  awake  will  be  torture  sufficient. 


TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  QUAKER. 

SWEET  girl !   though  only  once  we  met, 
That  meeting  I  shall  ne'er  forget  j 
And  though   we  ne'er  may  meet  again, 
Remembrance  will  thy  form   retain  ; 
I  would  not  say,   "  I  love,"  but  still, 
My  senses- struggle  wiih  my  will; 
In  vain,  to  drive  ihee  from  my  breast, 
My  thoughts  are  more  and  more  reprcstj. 
In  vain  I  check  the  rising  sighs, 
Another  to  the  last  replies  : 
Perhaps  this  is  not  love,  but  yet, 
Our  meeting  I  can  ne'er  forget. 

What  though  we  never  silence  broke, 

Our  eyes  a  sweeter  language  spoke; 

The  tongue  in  flattering  falsehood  deals. 

And  tells  a  tale  it  never  feels  : 

Deceit,  the  guilty  lips  impart, 

And  hush  the  mandates  of  the  heart ; 

But  soul's  interpreters,  the  eyes, 

Spurn  such  restraint,   and  scorn  disguise. 

As  thus  our  glances  oft  convers'd, 

And  all   our   bosoms  felt  rehears'd  ; 

No  spirit,  from  within,  reprov'd  us, 

Say  rather,  "  'twas  the  spirit  roov'd  us." 

Though  what  they  utter'd  I  repress, 

Yet,  I  conceive,  thou'lt  partly  guess  ; 

For,  as  on  thee,  my  memory  ponders. 

Perchance,  to  me,  thine  also  wanders. 

This,  for   myself,  at  least,   I'll  say, 

Thy  form  appears,  through  night,  through  day> 

Awake,  with  it  my  fancy  teems, 

In  sleep,  it  smiles  in  fleeting  dreams; 

The  vision  channs  the  hours  away, 

And  bids  me  curse  Aurora's  ray; 

For  breaking  slumbers  of  delight. 

Which  make  mc  wiuh  for  endless  night. 


20  HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 

Since,  ob  !   whate'er  my  future  fate, 
Shall  joy  or  woe  my  gteps  await 
Tempted  by  love,   by  storms  beset, 
Thine  image  I  can   ne'er  forget. 

Alas!  again,  no  more  we  meet. 
No  more  our  former  looks  repeat ; 
Then  let  me  breathe  this  parting  prayer. 
The  dictate  of  my  bosom's  care  : 
"  May  Heaven  so  guard  my  lovely  quaker, 
"  That  anguish  never  can  o'ertake  her; 
"  That  peace  and   virtue  ne'er  forsake  her, 
"  But  bliss   be  aye,  Iier  heart's  partaker. 
"  Oh!   may  the  happy  mortal,  fated 
•'  To  be,  by  dearest  ties,   related  ; 
"  For  lior,  each  hour,  new  joy  discover, 
"  And  lose  the  husband  in   the  lover. 
"  May  that  fair  bosom  never  know, 
"  What  'tis  to  feel  the  restless  woe, 
"  Which  stings  the  soul  with  vain  regret, 
"  Of  him,  who  never  can  forget," 


TO  — 


OH  !  yes,  I  will  own  we  were  dear  to  each  other, 

The  friendships  of  childhood,  though  fleeting,  are  true; 
The  Love  which  you  felt,  was  the   love  of  a  brother, 

Nor  less  the  afl'ection  I  chevish'd  for  you. 

2. 
But  Friendship  can  vary  her  gentle  dominion, 

Th' attachment  of  years    in    a   moment   expires; 
Like  Love  too,  she  moves  on  a  swift-waving  pinion, 

Eut  glows  not,    like  Love,  with  unquenchable  fires. 

S. 
Full  oft  have   we  wander'd  through  Ida  together, 

And  blest  were  the  scenes  of  our  youth,  I  allow; 
In  the  spring  of  our  life,   how  serene  is  the  weather. 

But  winter's  rude  tempests  are  gathering  now. 

4. 
No  more  with  Affection  shall  Memory  blending 

The  wonted  delights  of  our  childhood  retrace  ; 
When  pride  steels  the  bosom,   the  heart  is  unbending. 

And  what  would  be  Justice,  appears  a  disgrace. 

5. 
However,  dear  S ,  for  I  still  must  esteem  you^ 

TJie  few,  whom  I  love,  I  can  never  upbraid. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  21 

The  chance  which  has  lost,  may  in  future  redeem  you, 

Repentance  will  cancel  the  vow  you  have  made. 

6. 
I  will  not  complain,  and  though  chill'd  is  affection. 

With  me  no  corroding  resentment  shall  live; 
Jly  bosom  is  calm'd  by  the  simple  reflection, 

That  both  may  be  wrong,  and  that  both  fhould  forgive. 

7. 
You  knew  that  my  soul,  that  my  heart,  my  existence, 

If  danger  demanded,  were  wholly  your  own  ; 
You  knew  me  unalter'd,  by  years  or  by  distance. 

Devoted  to  love  and  to  friendship  alone. 

8. 
You  know  —  but  away  with  the  vain  retrospection. 

The  bond  of  afFtciion  no  longer  endures  ; 
Too  late  you  may  droop  o'er  the  fond  recollection. 

And  sigh  for  the  friend  \^ho  was  formerly  yoursi 

9. 
For  the  present  we  part —  I  will  hope  not  for  ever. 

For  time   and  regret  will  restore  you  at  last; 
To  forget  our  dissension  we  both  should  endeavour, 

I  ask  no  atonement,  but  days  like  the  past. 


TO  MARY, 

ON  RECEIVING  HER  PICTURE. 

THIS  faint  resemblance  of  thy  charms, 

Though  strong  as  mortal  art  could  give,. 
My  constant  heart  of  fear  disarms. 

Revives  my  hopes,  and  bids  me  live. 
2. 
Here,  I  can  trace  the  locks  of  gold, 

Which  down  thy  snowy  forehead  waive; 
The  cheeks,  which  sprung  from  Beauty's  mould. 

The  lips,  which  made  me  Beauty's  slave. 
3. 
Here,  I  can  trace  — —  ah  no  !  that  eye. 

Whose  azure  floats  in  liquid  fire. 
Must  all  the  painter's  art  defy. 

And  bid  him  from  the  task  retire. 
4. 
Here,  I  behold  its  beauteous  hue, 

But  Where's  the  beam  so  sweetly  straying  ? 
Which  gave  a  lustre  to  its  blue. 

Like  Lun&  o'er  the  ocean  playing. 


22  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

5. 
Sweet  copy  !  far  more  dear  to  me, 

Lifeless,  unfeeling  as  thou  art, 
Than  all  the  living  forms  could  be, 

Save  her,  who  plac'd  thee  next  mv  heart. 
6. 
She  plac'd  it,  sad,  with  needless  fear, 

Lest  time  might  shake  my  wavering  soul. 
Unconscious,  that  her  image  there. 

Held  every  sense  in  fast  control. 
7. 
Thro'  hours,  thro'  years,  thro'  time,  'twill  cheerj 

My  hope,  in  gloomy  moments,  raise ; 
In  life's  last  conflict,  'twill  appear,    " 

And  meet  my  fond  expiring  gaze. 


LOVE'S  LAST  ADIEU ! 


Aft   c',  asi  i^ie  (psvyei, 

ANACREOJf. 


THE  roses  of  love,  glad  the  garden  of  life. 

Though  nurtur'd  'mid  weeds  dropping  pestilent  dew, 
Till  Time  crops  the  leaves,  with  unmerciful  knife, 
Or  prunes  them  for  ever,  in  love's  last  adieu  ! 
2. 
Id  vain,  with  endearments,  we  soothe  the  sad  heart. 

In  vain,  do  we  vow,  for  an  age  to  be  true; 
The  chance  of  an  hour,  may  command  us  to  part. 
Or  death  disunite  us,  in  love's  last  adieu ! 
5. 
Still,  Hope  breathing  peace,  through  the  grief  swollen  breast. 

Will  whisper,  "  our  meeting  we  yet  may  renew  •" 
With  this  dream  of  deceit,  half  our  sorrow's  represt. 
Nor  taste  we  the  poison,  of  love's  last  adieu  ! 
4. 
Oh  !  mark  you  yon  pair,  in  the  sunshine  of  youth. 

Love  twiii'd  round  their  childhood,  Iiis  flow'rs  as  they  grew ; 
They  flourish  awl)ile,  in  the  season  of  truth, 
Till  cl)iird  by  the  winter  of  love's  last  adieu  ! 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS,  23 

5. 
Sweet  lady  i  why  thus  doth  a  tear  steal  its  way, 

Down  a  cheek,  which  outrivals  thy  bosom  in  hue  ? 
Yet,  why  do  1  ask  ?  to  distraction  a  prey, 

Thy  reason  has  perish'd,  with  love's  last  adieu ! 
6. 
Oh  !   who  is  yon  Misanthrope,  shunning  mankind? 

From  ci;ies  to  caves  of  the  forest  he  flew  : 
There,  raving,  he  howls  his  complaint  to  the  wind, 
The  mountains  reverberate  love's  last  adieu ! 
7. 
Now,  hate  rules  a  heart,  which  in  love's  easy  chains. 
Once,  passion's  tumultuous  blandishments  knew  ; 
Despair,  now,  enflames  the  dark  tide  of  his  veins, 
He  ponders,  in  frenzy,  on  love's  last  adieu  ! 
8. 
How  he  envies  the  wretch,  with  a  soul  wrapt  in  steel. 

His  pleasures  are  scarce,  yet  his  troubles  are  few  j 
Who  laughs  at  the  pang,  that  he  never  can  feel. 
And  dreads  not  the  anguish  of  love's  last  adieu! 
9. 
Youth  flies,  life  decays,  even  hope  is  o'ercast, 

No  more,  with  love's  former  devotion,  we  sue ; 
He  spreads  his  young  wing,  he  retires  with  the  blast, 
The  shroud  of  affection  is  love's  last  adieu  ! 
10. 
In  this  life  of  probation,  for  rapture  divine, 

Astrea  *  declares  that  some  penance  is  due  ; 
From  him,  who  has  worship'd  at  love's  gentle  shrine, 
The  atonement  is  ample,  in  love's  last  adieu! 
II. 
Who  kneels  to  the  God,  on  his  altar  of  light. 

Must  myrtle  and  cypress,  alternately,  strew  ; 
His  myrtle,  an  emblem  of  purest  delight, 

His  cypress,  the  garland  of  love's  last  adieu  ! 


DAM.^TAS. 


IN  law  an  infant, |-  and  in  years  a  boy. 
In  mind  a  slave  to  every  vicious  joy. 


*   The  Goddess  of  Justice. 

f  In  Law,  every  person  is  an  infant,  who  has  not  attained 
the  age  of  '^l> 


24  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

From  every  sense  of  sbame  and  virtue  wean'd, 

In  lies  an  adept,  in  deceit  a  fiend  ; 

Vers'd  in  hypocrisy,  while  yet  a  child, 

Fickle  as  wind,  of  inclinations  wild  ; 

Woman  his  dupe,  his  heedless  friend  a  tool, 

Old  in  the  world,  though  scarcely  broke  from  school ; 

Pamactas  ran  through  all  the  maze  of  sin, 

And  found  the  goal,  when  others  just  begin  : 

Ev'n  still  conflicting  passions  shake  his  soul, 

And  bid  him  drain  the  dregs  of  pleasures  bowl ; 

But,  pall'd  with  vice,  he  breaks  his  former  chain. 

And,  what  was  once  his  bliss,  appears  bis  bane. 


TO  MARION. 

M  A  RION  !   Why  that  pensive  brow  ? 

What  disgust  to  life  hast  thou  ? 

Change  that  discontented  air  ; 

Frowns  become  not  one  so  fair. 

'Tis  not  Love  disturbs  thy  rest. 

Love's  a  stranger  to  thy  breast  ; 

He,  in  dimpling  smiles,  appears, 

Or  mourns  in  sweetly  timid  tears  ; 

Or  bends  the  languid  eyelid  down. 

But  shuns  the  cold  forbidding  frown. 

Then  resume  thy  former  fire, 

Some  will  love,  and  all  admire; 

While  that  icy  aspect  chills  us, 

Nought  but  cool  indifF'rence  thrills  us. 

Would'st  thou  wand'ring  hearts  beguile, 

Smile,  at  least,  or  seem  to  smile ; 

Eyes,  like  thine,  were  never  meant 

To  hide  their  orbs,  in  dark  restraint ; 

Spite  of  all  thou  fain  would'st  say, 

Still  in  truant  beams  they  play. 

Thy  lips,  —  but  here  my  modest  Muse 

Her  impulse  chaste  must  needs  refuse. 

She  blushes,  curtsies,  frowns,  —  in  short  she 

Dreads,  lest  the  subject  should  transport  me; 

And  flying  ofT",  in  search  of  Reason, 

Brings  Prudence  back  in  proper  season. 

All  I  shall,  therefore,  say,  (whate'er 

I  think,  is  neither  here  nor  there,) 

Is  that  such  lips,  of  looks  endearing, 

Were  form'd  for  better  things,  than  sneering  ; 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  i^ 

tDf  soothing  compliments  divested, 

Advice,  at  least,  's  disinterested  ; 

Such  is  my  artless  song  to  thee, 

From  all  the  flow  of  flatt'ry  free ; 

Counsel,  like  mine,  is  as  a  brother's, 

My  heart  is  given  to  some  others; 

That  is  to  say,  unskill'd  to  cozen, 

It  shares  itself  amongst  a  dozen. 

Marion  !  adieu  !  oh  !  prithee  slight  not 

This  warning,  tho'  it  may  delight  not; 

And,  lest  my  precepts  be  displeasing, 

To  those,  who  think  remonstrance  teazing, 

At  once,  I'll  tell  thee  our  opinion, 

Concerning  woman's  soft  dominion  : 

Howe'er  we  gaze  with  admiration. 

On  eyes  of  blue,  or  lips  carnation  ; 

Howe'er  the  flowing  locks  attract  us  ; 

Howe'er  those  beaulias  may  distract  us; 

Still  fickle,  we  are  prone  to  rove, 

These  cannot  fix  our  souls  to  love  ; 

It  is  not  too  severe  a  stricture. 

To  say  they  form  a  pretty  picture. 

But,  would'st  thou  see  the  secret  chain. 

Which  binds  us  in  your  humble  train,  i 

To  hail  you  queens  of  all  creation, 

Know,  in  a  word,  'tis  Animation. 


OSCAR  OF  ALVA.* 

A  TALE. 

HOW  sweetly  shines,  through  azure  skies. 

The  lamp  of  Heav'n  on  Lora's  shore  ; 
Where  Alva's  hoary  turrets  rise, 

And  hear  the  din  of  arms  no  more. 
2. 
But  often  has  yon  rolling  moon, 

On  Alva's  casques  of  silver  play'd  ; 
And  view'd,  at  midnight's  silent  noon, 

Her  chiefs  in  gleaming  mail  array'd. 

*  The  Catastrophe  of  this  tale  was  suggested  by  the  story 
of  "  Jeronymo  and  Lorenzo,'  in  the  first  volume  of  •'  The 
Armenian,  or  Ghost  Seer."  It  also  bears  some  resemblance 
.0  a  scene  in  the  third  act  of  "  Macbeth," 

C 


2$  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

s. 

And  on  the  crimson'd  rocks  beneath. 

Which  scowl  o'er  ocean's  sullen  flow, 
Pale  in  the  scatter'd  ranks  of  death. 

She  view'd  the  gasping  warrior  low. 
4. 
When  many  an  eye,  which  ne'er  again 

Could  view  the  rising  orb  of  day, 
Turn'd  feebly  from  the  gory  plain, 

Beheld  in  death  her  fading  ray. 
5. 
Once,  to  those  eyes  the  lamp  of  Love, 

They  blest  her  dear  propitious  light ; 
But  now  she  glimmer'd  from  aboTe, 

A  sad  funereal  torch  of  night. 
6. 
Faded  is  Alva's  noble  race, 

And  grey  her  towers  are  seen  afar  ; 
No  more  her  heroes  urge  the  chace, 

Or  roll  the  crimson  tide  of  war. 
7. 
But,  who  was  last  of  Alva's  clan  ? 

Why  grows  the  moss  on  Alva's  stone? 
Her  towers  resound  no  steps  of  man, 

They  echo  to  the  gale  alone. 
8. 
And  when  that  gale  is  fierce  and  high, 

A  sound  is  heard  in  yonder  ball. 
It  rises  hoarsely  through  the  sky, 

And  vibrates  o'er  the  mouldering  wall. 
9. 
Yes,  when  the  eddying  tempest  sighs, 

It  shakes  the  shield  of  Oscar  brave ; 
But,  there  no  more  his  bannert  rise, 

No  more  his  plumes  of  sable  wave. 
10. 
Fair  shone  the  sun  on  Oscar's  birth, 

When  Angus  hall'd  his  eldest  born  ; 
The  vassals  round  their  chieftain's  hearth, 

Crowd  to  applaud  the  happy  morn. 
II. 
They  feast  upon  the  mountain  deer. 

The  Pibroch  rais'd  its  piercing  note, 
To  gladden  more  their  Highland  cheer. 

The  strains  in  martial  numbers  float. 
12. 
And  they  who  heard  the  war-notes  wild, 

Hop'd  that,  one  day,  the  Pibroch's  strain 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  27; 

Should  play  before  the  Hero's  child, 

While  he  should  lead  the  Tartaa  train. 
13. 
Another  year  is  quickly  past. 

And  Angus  hails  another  son, 
His  natal  day  is  like  the  last, 

Nor  soon  the  jocund  feast  was  done; 
14. 
Taught  by  their  sire  to  bend  the  bow, 

On  Alva's  dusky  hills  of  wind  ; 
The  boys  in  childhood  chas'd  the  roe, 

And  left  their  hounds  in  speed  behind. 
15. 
But  ere  their  years  of  youth  are  o'er. 

They  mingle  in  the  ranks  of  war  ;. 
They  lightly  wheel  the  bright  claymore. 

And  send  the  whistling  arrow  far. 
16. 
Dark  was  the  flow  of  Oscar's  hair. 

Wildly  it  stream'd  along  the  gale; 
But  Allan's  locks  were  bright  and  fair. 

And  pensive  seem'd  his  cheek,  and  pale. 
17. 
But  Oscar  own'd  a  hero's  soul, 

His  dark  eye  shone  through  beams  of  truth  j 
Allan  had  early  learn'd  control. 

And  smooth  his  words  had  been  from  youth. 
18. 
Both,  both  were  brave,  the  Saxon  spear. 

Was  shiver'd  oft  beneath  their  steel ; 
And  Oscar's  bosom  scorn'd  to  fear. 

But  Oscar's  bosom  knew  to  feel. 
19. 
While  Allan's  soul  belied  his  form. 

Unworthy  with  such  charms  to  dwell ; 
Keen  as  the  lightning  of  the  storm. 

On  foes  his  deadly  vengeance  fell. 
20. 
From  high  Southannon's  distant  tower, 

Arriv'd  a  young  and  noble  dame; 
With  Kenneth's  lands  to  form  her  dower, 

Glenalvon's  blue-ey'd  daughter  came. 
21. 
And  Oscar  claim'd  the  beauteous  bridsj^ 

And  Angus  on  his  Oscar  smil'd. 
It  sooth'd  the  father's  feudal  pride. 

Thus  to  obtain  Glenalvon's  child.^ 


i$  HOURS   OF  IDLENESSi- 

22. 
Hark  !  to  the  Pibrocli's  pleasing  notej 
Hark  to  ilie  swelling  nuptial  song  ; 
In  joyous  strains  tlie  voices  float, 
And  still  the  choral  peal  prolong. 
23. 
See  how  the  Heroes'  blood-red  plumes^ 

Assembl'd  wave  in  Alva's  hall; 
Each  youth  his  varied  plaid  assunnes. 
Attending  on  their  chieftain's  call. 
24. 
It  i£rnot  war  their  aid  demands, 

The  Pibroch  plays  the  song  of  peace  ; 
To  Oscar's  nuptials  throng  the  bands, 
Nor  yet  the  sounds  of  pleasure  cease. 
25. 
But  where  is  Oscar?  sure  'tis  late ; 

Is  this  a  bridegroom's  ardent  flame  ? 
"While  thronging  guests  and  ladies  waity. 
Nor  Oscar  nor  his  brother  came. 
26. 
At  length  young  Allan  join'd  the  bride, 

"  Why  comes  not  Oscar  ?"  Angus  said  j 
*'  Is  he  not  here?"  the  Youth  reply'd, 
With  me  be  ro»'d  not  o'er  the  glade. 
27. 
"  Perchance,  forgetful  of  the  day, 

"  'Tis  his  to  chace  the  bounding  roe; 
"  Or  Ocean's  waves  prolong  his  stay, 
"  Yet,  Oscar's  bark  is  seldom  slow." 
28. 
"  Oh  no,"  the  anguish 'd  Sire  rejoin'd, 

"  Nor  chace,  nor  wave  my  boy  delay ; 
*'  Would  he  to  Mora  seem  unkind  ? 
"  Would  aught  to  her  impede  his  way  ? 
29. 
"  Oh  !  search,  yc  Chiefs  !  oh  !  search  around  : 

"  Allan,  with  these  through  Alva  fly  ; 
"  Till  Oscar,  till  my  son  is  found, 

"  Haste,  haste,  nor  dare  attempt  reply. 
30. 
All  is  confusion,  —  through  the  vale, 
The  name  of  Oscar  hoarsely  rings, 
It  rises  on  the  murm'ring  gale, 

Till  night  expands  her  dusky  wings. 
31. 
It  breaks  the  stillness  of  the  night. 
But  echoes  through  her  shades  in  vain  ; 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  2$ 

It  sounds  through  morning's  misty  light, 
But  Oscar  comes  not  o'er  the  plain. 
32. 
Three  days,  three  sleepless  nights,  the  Chief 
For  Oscar  search'd  each  mountain  cave; 
Then  hope  is  lost,  in  boundless  grief, 
His  locks  in  grey-torn  ringlets  waive. 
33. 
*<  Oscar,  my  Son,  —  thou  God  of  Heav'n, 

"  Restore  the  prop  of  sinking  age; 
"  Or,  if  that  hope  no  more  is  given, 
"  Yield  his  assassin  to  my  rage, 
34. 
"  Yes,  on  some  desart  rocky  shore, 

"  My  Oscar's  whiten'd  bones  must  lie  ; 
«  Then  grant,  thou  God,  I  ask  no  more, 
"  With  him  his  frantic  Sire  may  die. 
35. 
"  Yet,  he  may  live,  —  away  despair ; 

•'  Be  calm,  my  soul,  he  yet  may  live; 
"  T'  arraign  my  fate,  my  voice  forbear, 
"  O  God !  my  impious  prayer  forgive  ? 
36. 
"  What,  if  he  live,  for  me  no  more, 

"  I  sink  forgotten  in  the  dust, 
"  The  hope  of  Alva's  age  is  o'er, 

"  Alas  !  can  pangs  like  these  be  just  ?" 
37. 
Thus  did  the  hapless  parent  mourn, 

Till  Time,  who  soothes  severest  woe  ; 
Had  bade  serenity  return, 

And  made  the  tear-drop  cease  to  flow  : 
38. 
For  still  some  latent  hope  surviv'd. 

That  Oscar  might  once  more  appear  ; 
His  hope  now  droop'd,  and  now  reviv'd,. 
Till  Time  had  told  a  tedious  year; 
39. 
Days  roll'd  along,  the  orb  of  light. 
Again  had  run  his  destin'd  race  ; 
No  Oscar  bless'd  his  father's  sight. 
And  sorrow  left  a  fainter  trace. 
40. 
For  youthful  Allan  still  renaain'd. 
And  now  his  father's  only  joy  ; 
And  Mora's  heart  was  quickly  gain'd, 
For  beauty  crown'd  the  fair-hair'd  boy.. 
C  2, 


30  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

41. 
She  thought  that  Oscar  low  was  laid, 

And  Allan's  face  was  wond'rous  fair. 
If  Oscar  liv'd,  some  other  maid 

Had  claim'd  his  faithleas  bosom's  care. 
42; 
And  Angus  said,  if  one  year  more. 

In  fruitless  hope  was  pass'd  away  ; 
His  fondest  scruples  should  be  o'er. 
And  he  would  name  their  nuptial  day. 
43. 
Slow  roU'd  the  moons,  but  blest  at  last, 

Arriv'd  the  dearly  destin'd  morn ; 
The  year  of  anxious  trembling  past, 
Wliat  smiles  the  lovers'  cheeks  adorn  ! 
44. 
Hark  to  the  Pibroch's  pleasing  note. 

Hark  to  the  swelling  nuptial  song  ; 
In  joyous  strains  the  voices  float. 
And  still  the  choral  peal  prolong. 
45. 
Again  the  clan  in  festive  crowd. 

Throng  through  the  gate  of  Alva's  ball ; 
The  sounds  of  mirth  re-echo  loud  ; 
And  all  their  former  joy  recall. 
46. 
But,  who  is  he,  whose  darken'd  brow 

Glooms  in  the  midst  of  general  mirth  ? 
Before  his  eye's  far  fiercer  glow, 

The  blue  flames  curdle  o'er  the  hearth. 
47. 
Dark  is  the  robe  which  wraps  his  form, 

And  tall  his  plume  of  gory  red  ; 
His  voice  is  like  the  rising  Btorm, 
But  light  and  trackless  is  his  tread. 
48. 
'Tis  noon  of  night,  the  pledge  goes  rounds 

The  bridegroom's  health  is  deeply  quaft  ; 
\Viib  shouts  the  vaultfj  roofs  resound. 
And  all  combine  to  bail  the  draught. 
«  49. 

Sudden  the.»iranger  chief  arose. 

And  all  the  clamorous  crowd  are  bush'd  ; 
And  Angus'  cheek  with  wonder  glows, 
And  Mora's  tender  bosom  blush'd. 
50. 
«  OW  man,"  he  cry'd,  «  this  pledge  is  done, 
"  Thou  saw'st,  'twas  duly  drank  by  me, 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  St 

"  It  hail'd  the  nuptuals  of  thy  son, 

"  Now  will  I  claim  a  pledge  from  thee. 
51. 
"  While  all  around  is  mirth  and  joy, 

"  To  bless  thy  Allan's  happy  lot; 
"  Say,  had'st  thou  ne'er  another  boy  ? 

"  Say,  why  should  Oscar  be  forgot?" 
52. 
"  Alas  !"  the  hapless  sire  reply'd, 

The  big  tear  starting  as  he  spoke; 
"  When  Oscar  left  my  hall,  or  died, 

"  This  aged  heart  was  almost  broke. 
53. 
"  Thrice  has  the  earth  revolv'd  her  course, 

"  Since  Oscar's  form  has  bless'd  my  sight ; 
"  And  Allan  is  my  last  resource, 

"  Since  martial  Oscar's  death,  or  flight." 
54. 
"  'Tis  well,"  reply'd  the  stranger,  stern. 

And  fiercely  flash'd  his  rolling  eye, 
"  Thy  Oscar's  fate,  I  fain  would  learn, 

"  Perhaps  the  Hero  did  not  die. 
55. 
"  Perchance,  if  those,  whom  most  he  lov'd, 

"  Would  call,  thy  Oscar  might  return  ; 
♦'  Perchance,  the  Chief  has  only  rov'd, 

"  For  him  thy  Beltane*  yet  may  burn. 
56. 
*'  Fill  high  the  bowl,  the  tabls  round, 

«<  We  will  not  claim  the  pledge  by  stealth; 
•'  With  wine  let  every  cup  be  crown'd, 

"  Pledge  me  departed  Oscar's  health." 
57. 
"  With  all  my  soul,"  old  Angus  said, 

And  fiU'd  his  goblet  to  the  brim  ; 
"  Here's  to  my  boy  !   alive  or  dead, 

"  I  ne'er  chall  find  a  son  like  him." 
58. 
*'  Bravely,  eld  man,  this  health  has  sped, 

"  But  why  does  Allan  trembling  stand  ? 
"  Come,  drink  remembrance  of  the  dead, 

"  And  raise  thy  cup  withj^naer  band." 

*   Beltane-Tree— A  Highland  festival,  on  the  lit  of  Maj,, 
held  near  fires,  lighted  for  the  occasion. 


32  HOURS  OF  IDLENES& 

59. 

The  crimson  glow  of  Allan's  face, 

Was  turii'd  at  once  to  ghastly  hue ; 
The  drops  of  death  each  other  chase 
Adown  in  agonizing  dew. 
60. 
Thrice  did  he  raise  the  goblet  high, 

And  thrice  his  lips  refused  to  taste; 
For  thrice  he  caught  the  stranger's  eye, 
On  his  with  deadly  fury  plac'd. 
61. 
"  And  is  it  thus,  a  brother  hails, 

*'  A  brother's  fond  remembrance  here? 
"  If  thus  affection's  strength  prevails, 

"  What  might  we  not  expect  from  fear  ?' 
62. 
Rous'd  by  the  sneer,  he  rais'd  the  bowl, 

"  Would,  Oscar  now  could  share  our  mirth  t" 
Internal  fears  appall'd  his  soul. 

He  said,  and  dash'd  the  cup  to  earth. 
63. 
*♦  'Tis  he,  I  hear  my  murderer's  voice,'' 
Loud  shrieks  a  darkly  gleaming  form  ; 
"  A  murderer's  voice  !"  the  roof  replies, 
And  deeply  swells  the  bursting  storm. 
64. 
The  tapers  wink,  the  chieftains  shrink, 

The  stranger  's  gone, —  amidst  the  crew 
A  form  was  seen,  in  tartan  green. 
And  tall  the  shade  terrific  grew. 
65. 
His  waist  was  bound,  with  a  broad  belt  round, 

His  plume  of  sable  stream'd  on  liigh  ; 
But  his  breast  was  bare,  with  the  red  wounds  there^. 
And  fix'd  was  the  glare  of  his  glassy  eye. 
6G. 
And  thrice  he  smil'd,  with  his  eye  so  wild. 

On  Angus,  bending  low  the  knee; 
And  ihrice  he  frow;i'd,  on  a  chief  on  the  gi'ouRd, 
Whom  shivering  crowds  with  horror  see. 
67. 
The  bolts  loud  roll,  from  pole  to  pole, 

The  thunders  through  the  welkin  ring; 
And  the  gleaming  form,  through  the  mist  of  the  storm,. 
Was  borne  on  higli,  by  the  wliirlwind's  wing. 
68. 
Cold  was  the  feast,  the  revel  ccas'd, 
Who  lies  upon  the  stony  floor? 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  S& 

Old  Angus  prest,  the  earth  with  his  breast, 

At  length  his  life-pulse  throbs  once  more. 
69. 
"  Away,  away,  let  the  leech  essay, 

"  To  pour  the  light  on  Allan's  eyes;" 
His  sand  is  done  —  his  race  is  run, 

Oh  !  never  more  shall  Allan  rise! 
70. 
But  Oscar's  breast  i«  cold  as  clay. 

His  locks  are  lifted   by  the  gale; 
And  Allan's   barbed  arrow  lay, 

With  him  in  dark  Glentanar's  vale. 
71. 
And  whence  the  dreadful  stranger  came. 

Or  who,  no  naortal  wight  can  tell; 
But  no  one  doubts  the  form  of  flame. 

For  Alva's  sons  knew  Oscar  well. 
72. 
Ambition  nerv'd  young  Allan's  band, 

Exulting  demons  wing'd  his  dart,^ 
While  Envy  wav'd  her  burning  brand, 

And  pour'd  her  venom  round  his  heart. 
73. 
Swift  is   the  shaft  from  Allan's  bow, 

Whose  streaming  life-blood  stains  his  side? 
Dark  Oscar's  sable  crest  is  low. 

The  dart  has  drank  his  vital  tide. 

74.  X 

And   Mora's  eye  could  Allan  move. 

She  bade   his  wounded  pride  rebel: 
Alas  !   that  eyes  which  beam'd  with  love, 

Should  urge  the  soul  to  deeds  of  Hell. 
75. 
Lo !  seest  thou  not  a  lonely  tomb. 

Which  rises  o'er  a  warrior  dead? 
It  glimmers  thro*  the  twilight  gloom  ; 

Oh  !  that  is  Allan's  nuptial  bed, 
76. 
Far,  distant  far,  the  noble  grave. 

Which  held  his  clan's  great  ashes,  stood  ; 
And  o'er  his  corse  no  banners  wave, 

For  they  were  stain'd  with  kindred  blood. 
77. 
What  minstrel  grey,  what    hoary  bard, 

Sliall  Allan's  deeds  on  harp-strings  raise  ? 
The  song  is  glory's  chief  reward, 

But  who  can  strike  a  inurd'rer's  praise? 


54  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS 

78. 
Unstrung,  untouch'd,  the  harp  must  stand, 

No  minstrel  dare  the  theme  awake ; 
Guilt  would  benumb  his  palsied  hand, 

His  harp  in  shuddering  chords  would  break. 
79. 
No  lyre  of  fame,  no  hallowed  verse. 

Shall  sound  his  glories  high  in  air, 
A  dying  father's  bitter  curse, 

A  brother's  death-groan  echoes  there. 


Cranslations  mxts  Mxitatiom. 


M^>A^MA*AAM^^lM4l« 


ADRIAN'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  SOUL. 


WHEK    DTING. 


ANIMULA  !  vagula,  blandula, 
Hospes,  comesque,  corporis, 
Quae  nunc  abibis  in  loca? 
PalliduJa,  rigida,  nudula. 
Nee,  ut  soles,  dabis  jocos. 


TRANSLATION. 

AH  !  gentle,  fleeting,  wav'ring  sprite. 
Friend  and  associate  of  this  clay  ! 

To  what  unknown  region  borne, 
Wilt  thou,  now,  wing  thy  distant  flight? 
No  more,  with  wonted  humour  gay, 

But  pallid,  cheerless,  and  forlorn. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  5$ 

TRANSLATION  FROM  CATULLUS. 

AD  LESBIAM. 

EQUAL  to  Jove,  that  youth  must  be, 

Greater  than  Jove,  he  seems  to  me, 

Who,  free  from  Jealousy's  alarms. 

Securely  views  thy  matchless  charms ; 

That  cheek,  which  «ver  dimpling  glows. 

That  mouth,  from  whence  such  music  flows, 

To  him,  alike,  are  always  known, 

Reserv'd  for  him,  and  him  alone. 

Ah,  Lesbia  !  though  'tis  death  to  me, 

I  cannot  choose  but  look  on  thee  ; 

But,  at  the  sight,  my  senses  fly, 

I  needs  must  gaze,  but  gazing  die ; 

Whilst  trembling  with  a  thousand  fears, 

Parch'd  to  the  throat,  my  tongue  adheres ; 

Wy  pulse  beats  quick,  my  breath  heaves  short, 

My  limbs  deny  their  slight  support ; 

Cold  dews  my  pallid  face  o'erspread, 

With  deadly  languor  droops  my  head. 

My  ears  with  tingling  echoes  ring, 

And  life  itself  is  on  the  wing; 

My  eyes  refuse  the  cheering  light, 

Their  orbs  are  veil'd  in  starless  night; 

Such  pangs  my  nature  sinks  beneath, 

And  feels  a  temporary  death. 


TRANSLATION 

Of  the  Epitaph  on  Virgil  afid  TiIuUhs, 


Br    DOMITIUS    MAUSUS. 


HE,  who  sublime,  in  epic  numbers  roll'd, 

And  be,  wlio  struck  the  softer  lyre  of  love. 
By  Death's*  unequal  hand  alike  control'd 
Fit  comrades  in  Elysian  regions  move. 

»  The  hand  of  Death  is  said  to  be  unjust,  or  unequal,  as 
Virgil  was  considerably  older  than  Tibullus,  at  his  decease. 


«6  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

TRANSLATION  FROM  CATULLUS. 
"luctus  de  horte  passeris." 

YE  Cupids,  droop  each  little  head, 
Nor  let  your  wings  with  joy  be  spread. 
My  Lesbia's  fav'rite  bird  is  dead, 

Whom  dearer   than  her  eyes  she  lov'd  : 
For  he  was  gentle,  and  so  true, 
Obedient   to  her  call  he  flew. 
No  fear,  no  wild  alarm  he  knew, 

But  lightly  o'er  her  bosom  mov'd  : 

And  softly  fluttering  here  and  there, 
He  never  sought  to  cleave  the  air; 
But  cbirrup'd  oft,  and  free  from  care, 

Tun'd  to  Iier  ear  his  grateful  strain. 
Now  having  pass'd  the  gloomy  boarn, 
From  whence  he  never  can  return, 
His  death,  and  Lesbia's  grief,   I  mourn, 

Who  sighs,  alas!  but  sighs  in  vain. 

Oh  !  curst  be  thou,  devouring  grave ! 
Whose  jaws  eternal  victims  crave. 
From  whom  no  earthly  power  can  save, 

For  thou  hast  ta'en  the  bird  away : 
From  thee,  my  Lesbia's  eyes  o'erflow. 
Her  swollen  cheeics,   with  weeping,  glow. 
Thou  art  the  cause  of  all  her  woe. 

Receptacle  of  life's  decay. 


IMITATED  FROM  CATULLUS, 

TO     ELLEN. 

OH  !  might  I  kiss  those  eyes  of  fire, 
A  million  scarce  would  quench  desire; 
Still,  would  I  steep  my  lips  in  bliss. 
And  dwell  an  age  on  every  kiss; 
Nor  then  my  soul  should  sated  be. 
Still  would  I  kiss,  and  cling  to  thee; 
Nought  should  my  kiss  from  thine  dissever, 
Still,  would  we  kiss,  and  kiss  for  ever; 
E'en  though  the  number  did  exceed 
The  yellow  harvest's  countless  seed  ; 
To  part  would  be  a  vain  endeavour. 
Could  I  desist  ?  —  ah  I  never  —  never. 


TRANSLATIONS  AND  IMITATIONS. 
TRANSLATION  FROM  ANACREGN. 


TO  HIS  LYRE. 

I  wisli  to  tune  my  guivering  lyre, 
To  deeds  of  fame,  and  notes  of  fire  ; 
To  echo  from  its  rising  swell. 
How  heroes  fought,  and  nations  fell ; 
Whsn  Atrens'  sons  advanc'd  to  war. 
Or  Tyrian  Cadmus  rov'd  afar; 
But  still,  to  martial  strains  unknown. 
My  lyre  recurs  to  love  alone, 
Fir'd  with  the  hope  of  future  fame, 
I  seek  some  nobler  hero's  name ; 
Tiie  dying  chords  are  strung  anew. 
To  war,  to  war,  my  harp  is  due; 
With  glowing  strings,  the  epic  strain. 
To  Jove's  great  son  I  raise  again, 
Alcides  and  his  glorious  deeds, 
Beneath  whose  arm  the  Hydra  bleeds; 
All,  all  in  vain,  my  wayward  lyre, 
Wakes  silver  notes  of  soft  desire, 
Adieu  ye  chiefs,  renown'd  in  arms. 
Adieu  the  clang  of  war's  alarms. 
To  other  deeds  my  soul  is  strung. 
And  sweeter  notes  shall  now  be  sung ; 
My  harp  shall  all  its  powers  reveal, 
To  tell  the  tale  my  heart  must  feel. 
Love,  love  alone,  my  lyre  shall  claim. 
In  songs  of  bliss,  and  sighs  of  flame.. 


ODE  III. 

'TWAS  now  the  hour  when  night  had  driven, 
Her  car  half  round  yon  sable  heaven, 
Bootes  only  seem'd  to  roll 
His  Arctic  charge  around  the  Pole; 
While  mortals  lost  in  gentle  sleep, 
Forgot  to  smile,  or  ceas'd  to  weep  ; 
At  this  lone  hour,  the  Paphian  boy, 
Descending  from  the  realms  of  joy, 
D 


58         TRANSLATIONS  AND  IMITATIONS. 

Quick  to  my  gate,  directs  his  course. 

And  knocks  with  all  his  little  force ; 

]\]y  visions  fled,  alarm'd  I  rose, 

"  What  stranger  breaks  my  blest  repose  ?" 

Alas  !   replies  the  wily  child. 

In  faltering  accents,  sweetly  mild  ; 

"  A  hapless  infant  here  I  roam, 

"  Far  from  my  dear  maternal  home ; 

"  Oh  !  shield  me  from  the  wintry  blast, 

"  The  nightly  storm  is  pouring  fast, 

"  No  prowling  robber  lingers  here  ; 

"  A  wandering  baby,  wlio  can  fear?" 

I  heard  his  seeming  artless  tale, 

I  heard  his  sighs  upon  the  gale  ; 

My  breast  was  never  pity's  foe, 

But  felt  for  all  the  baby's  woe, 

J  drew  the  bar,  and  by  the  light. 

Young  Love,  the  infant,  met  my  sight ; 

His  bow  across  his  shoulders  flung, 

And  thence  his  fatal  quiver  hung, 

(Ah  !   little  did  I  think  the  dart. 

Would  rankle  soon  within  my  heart ;) 

With  care  I  tend  my  weary  guest, 

His  little  fingers  chill  my  breast, 

His  glossy  curls,  his  azure  wing. 

Which  droop  with  nightly  showers,  I  wring; 

His  shivering  limbs  the  embers  warm, 

And,  now,  reviving  from  the  storm. 

Scarce  had  he  felt  his  wonted  glow. 

Than  swift  he  seized  his  slender  bow  ; 

•'  I  fain  would  know  my  gentle  host," 

He  cried,  "  if  this  its  strength  has  loef  ; 

"  I  fear,  relax'd  with  midnight  dews, 

"  The  strings  their  former  aid  refuse  ; 

With  poison  tipt,  his  arrow  flies. 

Deep  in  my  torlur'd  heart  it  lies  ; 

Then  loud  the  joyous  urchin  laught, 

"  Wy  bow  can  still  impel  the  shaft; 

"  'Tis  firmly  fix'd,  thy  sighs  reveal  it, 

"  Say,  courteous  host,  canst  thou  not  feel  it  ?" 


TRANSLATIONS  AND  IMITATIONS.         S9 
FRAGMENTS  OF  SCHOOL  EXERCISES, 

FROM  THE 
PROMETHEOS    VINCXUS    OF    ^SCHYLUS. 

GREAT  Jove  !  to  whose  Almiglity  throne, 

Both  Goda  and  mortals  homage  pay, 
Ne'er  may  my  soul  thy  power  disown, 

Thy  dread  behests  ne'er  disobey. 
Oft  shall  the  sacred  victim  fall, 
In  sea-girt  Ocean's  mossy  hall  : 
My  voice  shall  raise  no  impious  strain, 
'Gainst  him  who  lules  the  sky  and  azure  main. 
«  «  *  *  *  * 

How  different  now  thy  joyless  fate, 

Since  first  Hesione  thy  bride. 
When  plac'd  aloft  in  godlike  state. 

The  blushing  beauty  by  thy  side. 
Thou  sat'st,  while  reverend  Ocean  smil'd. 
And  mirthful  strains  the  hours  beguil'd  ; 
The  Nymphs  and  Tritons  danc'd  around, 
Nor  yet  thy  doom  was  fix'd  nor  Jove  relentless  frown'd. 

Harrow,  December  1,  1804. 


^  #^<A^^  A/<A/iX 


THE 

EPISODE  OF  NISUS  AND  EURYALUS. 

A  PARAPHRASE  FROM  THE  iENEID,  LIB.  9. 

NISUS,  the  guardian  of  the  portal,  stood, 

Eager  to  gild  his  arms  with  hostile  blood : 

Well  skill'd  in  figlit,  the  quiv'ring  lance  to  wield, 

Or  pour  his  arrows  through  th*  embattl'd  field  ; 

From  Ida  torn  he  left  his  native  grove; 

Through  distant  climes,  and  trackless  seas  to  rove 

To  watch  the  movements  of  the  Daunian  host ; 

With  him  Euryalus  sustains  the  post, 

No  lovelier  mein  adorn'd  the  ranks  of  Troy, 

And  beardless  bloom  yet  grac'd  tlie  gallant  boy; 

Though  few  the  seasons  of  his  youthful  life, 

As  yet  a  novice  in  the  martial  strife, 


40  TRANSLATIONS  AND  IMITATIONS. 

'Twas  his,  with  beauty,  valour's  gifts  to  share, 
A  soul  heroic,  as  his  form  was  fair. 
These  burn  wiili  one  pure  flame  of  gen'rous  love. 
In  peace,  in  war,  united  still  they  move; 
Friendsliip  and   glory  form  iheir  joint  reward, 
And  now  combin'd  they  hold  the  nightly  guard. 

"  What  God  ?"  cxclaim'd  the  first,  "  instils  this  fire  ! 
"  Or,  in  itsdf  a  God,  whaf great  desire? 
"  My  lab'ring  soul,  with  anxious  thought  opprest, 
"  Abhors  this  station  of  inglorious  rest ; 
"  The  love  of  Fame  with  tijis  can  ill  accord, 
"  Be  't  mine,  to  s«ck  for  glory  with  my  sword. 
"  See'st  thou  yon  camp,  with  torches  twjnkling  dim, 
"  Where  drunken  slumbers  wrap  each  lazy  limb? 
"  Where  confidence  and  ease  the  watch  disdain, 
"  And  drowsy  Silence  holds  her  sable  reign  ? 
"  Then  hear  my  thought :    In  deep  and  sullen  grief, 
•'  Our  troops  and  Icatlerg  mourn  their  absent  chief; 
"  Now  could  the  gifts,  and  promis'd  prize  bo  thinej 
*'  (The  deed,  the  danger,  and  the  fame  be  mine ;) 
"  Were  this  decreed,  —  beneath  yon  rising  moundj 
•'  Methinks,  an  easy  path,  perchance  were  found, 
"  Which  past,  I  speed  my  way  to  Pallas'  walls, 
"  And  lead  ^^Dneas  from  Evander's  halls." 
With  equal  ardour  fired,  and  warlike  joy. 
His  glowing  friend  address'd  the  Dardan  boy, 
"  These  deeds,  my  Nisus,  shalt  thou  dare  alone? 
•'  Must  all  the  fame,  the  peril  be  thine  own  ? 
"  Am  I  by  thee  dispis'd,  and  left  afar, 
"  As  one  unfit  to  share  the  toil*  of  war? 
"  Not  thus,  his  son,  the  great  Opheltus  taught, 
"  Not  thus,  my  sire,  in   Argive  combats  fought; 
«♦  Nt)t  thus,  when  Ilion  fell  by  heavenly  hate, 
"  I  track'd  iEneas  through  the  walks  of  fate. 
"  Thou  know'st  my  deeds,  my  breast  devoid  of  ffear, 
*'  And  hostile  life-drops  dim  my  gory  spear, 
"  Here  is  a  soul,  with  hope  immortal  burns, 
"  And  I  if i3  ignoble  life,  for  glory' spurns, 
"  Fame,  fame,  is  cheaply  earn'd  by  fleeting  breath, 
"  The  price  of  honour,  is  ilie  sleep  of  death." 

Then  Nisus, "  Calm  thy  bosom's  fond  alarmsj 

"  Thy  heart  beats  fiercely  to  the  din  of  arms  ; 
"  More  dear  thy  worth,  and  valour  than  my  own, 
"  I  swear  by  him.  who  fills  Olympus'  throne  I 
"  So  may  I  triumph,  as  I  speak  the  truth, 
"  And  clasp  again  the  comrade  of  my  youth  ;. 


TRANSLATIONS  AND  IMITATIONS.       ■»! 

"  But,  should  I  fall,  and  lie  who  dares  advance, 

"  Through  hostile  legions,  niust  abide  by  chance ; 

"  If  some  Rutuliau  arm  with  adverse  blow, 

"  Should  lay  the  friend,  who  ever  lov'd  thee,  low. 

«'  Live  thou,  such  beauties  I  would  fain  preserve, 

"  Thy  budding  years  a  lengthen'd  term  deserve, 

«<  When  humbled  in  the  dust,  let  some  one  be, 

"  Whose  gentle  eyes,  will  shed  one  tear  for  me  ; 

"  Whose  manly  arm  may  snatch  me  back  by  force, 

«'  Or  wealth  redeem,  from  foes,  my  captive  corse  : 

<'  Or,  if  my  destiny- these  last  deny, 

"  If  in  the  spoiler's  power,  my  ashes  lie  ; 

*'  Thy  pious  care,  may  raise  a  simple  tomb, 

«'  To  mark  thy  love,  and  signalize  my  doom. 

"  Why  should  thy  doating  wretched  mother  weep, 

'•  Her  only  boy,  reclin'd  in  endless  sleep  ? 

"  Who  for  thy  sake,  the  tempest's  fury  dar'd, 

"  Who  for  thy  sake,  war's  deadly  peril  shar'd; 

"  Who  brav'd,  what  woman  never  brav'd  before, 

"  And  left  her  native,  for  the  Latian  shore." 

"  In  vain  you  damp  the  ardour  of  my  soul," 

Rcply'd  Euryalus  !   "  it  scorns  control ; 

"  Hence,  let  us  haste,"  —  their  brother  guards  arose, 

Kcuz'd  by  their  call,  nor  court  again  repose  ; 

The  pair  buoy'd  up  on  Hope's  exuhing  wing, 

Their  stations  leave,  and  speed  to  seek  the  king. 

Now  o'er  the  earth,  a  solemn  stillness  ran, 

And  lull'd  alike  the  cares  of  brute  and  man  ; 

Save  where  the  Dardan  leaders  nightly  hold. 

Alternate  converse,  and  their  plans  unfold ; 

On  one  great  point  the  council  are  agreed. 

An  instant  message  to  their  prince  decreed ;  ^ 

Each  lean'd  upon  the  lance,  he  well  could  wield. 

And  pois'd,  with  easy  arm,  his  ancient  shield  ; 

When  Nisus  and  his  friend  their  leave  request, 

To  offer  something  to  their  high  behest. 

With  anxious  tremors,  yet  unaw'd  by  fear. 

The  faithful  pair  before  the  throne  appear ; 

lulus  greets  them,  at  his  kind  command, 

The  elder  first,  address'd  the  hoary  band. 

"  With  patience,"  (thus  Hyrtacldes  began,) 
««  Attend,  nor  judge,  from  youth,  our  humble  plan  ;. 
'«  Where  yonder  beacons  half  expiring  beam, 
«»  Our  slumbering  foes  of  future  conque?t  dream, 
»'  Nor  heed  that  we  a  secret  path  have  trac'd, 
Beneath  the  ocean,  and  the  portal  plac'd ; 
2  D 


42       TRANSLATIONS  AND  IMITATIONS. 

"  Beneath  the  covert  of  the  blackening  smoke, 

"  Whose  shade  securely  our  design  will  cloak  ! 

•'  If  you,  ye  chiefs,  and  fortune,  will  allow, 

"  We'll  bend  our  course  to  yonder  mountain's  brow  ; 

"  Where  Pallas*  walls  at  distance  meet  the  sight, 

"  Seen  o'er  the  glade,  when  not  obscur'd  by  niglit ; 

"  Then  shall  ^-Eneas,  in  his  pride  return, 

"  While  hostile  matron's  raise  their  offspring's  urn  ; 

"  And  Latian  spoils,  and  purpl'd  heaps  of  dead, 

"  Shall  mark  the  havock  of  our  Hero's  tread  ; 

«'  Such  is  our  purpose,  not  unknown  the  way, 

"  Where  yonder  torrents  devious  waters  stray ; 

"  Oft  have  we  seen  when  hunting  by  the  stream, 

♦'  The  distant  spires  above  the  vallies  gleam." 

Mature  in  years,  for  sober  wisdom  fam'd, 
Mov'd  by  the  speech,  Alethes,  here  exclaim'd  ! 
"  Ye  parent  Gods  !  vrho  rule  the  fate  of  Troy, 
"  Still  dwells  the  Dardan  spirit  in  (he  boy  ; 
"  When  minds  like  these,  in  striplings  thus  ve  raise, 
"  Yours  is  ilie  god-like  act,  be  yours  the  praise; 
"  In,  gallant  youth,  my  fainting  hopes  revive, 
"  And  Ilion's  wonted  glories  still  survive;" 
Then  in  his  warm  embrace,  the  boys  he  press'd. 
And  quivering  strain'd  them  to  bis  aged  breast; 
With  tears  the  burning  cheek  of  each  bedew'd. 
And,  sobbing,  thus  his  first  discourse  renew'd  :  — 
"  What  gift,  my  countrymen,  what  martial  prize 
"  Can  wc  bestow,  which  you  may  not  despise  ? 
"  Our  Deities  the  first,  best  boon  have  given, 
*'  Internal  virtues  are  the  gift  of  Heaven. 
"  What  poor  rewards,  can  bless  your  deeds  on  earth, 
"  Doubtless  await  such  young  exalted  worth  ; 
"  JEneas,  and  Ascanius  sliall  combine, 
"  To  yield  applause  far,  far,  surpassing  mine." 
lulus  then  ;  ■'  By  all  the  powers  above  ! 
•'  By  those*  Penates,  who  my  country  love  ; 
«'  By  Iwary  Vesta's  sacred  Fane,  I  swear, 
"  ^ly  hopes,  are  sll  in  you,  ye  generous  pair ! 
*'  Restore  my  father,  to  my  grateful  sight, 
"  And  ail  my  sorrows,  yield  to  one  delight. 
"  Nisus!   two  silver  goblets  are  thine  own, 
"  Sav'd  from  Arisba's  stately  domes  o'ertbrown  ; 
"  My  sire  secur'd  them  en  that  fatal  day  ; 
"  Nor  left  such  bowls,  an  Argive  robber's  prej. 

•  Household  Gods. 


TRANSLATIONS  AND   IMITATIONS.        43 

"  Two  massy  tripods,  also  shall  be  thine, 

"  Two  talents  polished  from  the  glittering  mine ; 

«'  An  ancient  cup,  which  Tyrian  Dido  gave, 

"  While  yet  our  vessels  press'd  the  Punic  wave : 

"  But  when  the  hostile  chiefs  at  length  bow  down, 

•'  When  great  iEneas  wears  Hesperia's  crown, 

"  The  casque,  the  buckler,  and  the  fiery  steed, 

'«  Which  Turnus  guides  with  inore  than  mortal  speed, 

"  Are  thine;  no  envious  lot  shall  then  be  cast, 

"  I  pledge  my  word,  irrevocably  past ; 

•«  Nay  more,  twelve  slaves  and  twice  six  captive  dames, 

«'  To  sooth  thy  softer  hours,  with  amorous  flames, 

«'  And  all  the  realm?,  which  now  the  Latins  sway, 

'*  The  labours  of  to-night,  shall  well  repay. 

"  But  thou,  my  generous  youth,  whose  tender  years, 

"  Are  near  my  own,  whose  worth,  my  heart  reveres, 

'•  Henceforth,  afFedion  sweetly  thus  begun, 

"  Shall  join  our  bosoms  and  our  souls  in  one  ; 

"  Without  thy  aid  no  gloiy  shall  be  mine, 

"  Without  thy  dear  advice,  no  great  design  : 

«*  Alike  through  life,  esteem'd,  thou  godlike  boy, 

"  In  war  my  bulwark,  and  in  peace  my  joy." 

To  him  Euryalus,  "  no  day  shall  shame 
'*  The  rising  glories,  which  from  this  I  claim. 
"  Fortune  may  favour,  or  the  skies  may  frown, 
"  But  valour,  spite  of  fate,  obtains  renown. 
"  Yet,  ere  from  hence  our  eager  steps  depart, 
"  One  boon  I  beg,  the  nearest  to  my  hoart : 
"  My  mother  sprung,  from  Priam's  royal  line, 
"  Like  thine  ennobl'd,  hardly  less  divine, 
»•  Nor  Troy,  nor  King  Acestes'  realms  restrain 
"  Her  feeble  age  from  dangers  of  the  main, 
"  Hither  she  caine,  all  selfish  fears  above, 
"  A  bright  example  of  maternal  love. 
••  Unknown  the  secret  enterprise  I  brave, 
"  Lest  grief  should  bend  my  parent  to  the  grave; 
"  From  this  alone  no  fond  adieus  I  seek, 
"  No  fainting  mother's  lips  have  press'd  my  cheek; 
"  By  gloomy  Night,  and  thy  right  hand  I  vcw, 
"  Her  parting  tears  would  shake  my  purpose  now  ; 
"  Do  thou,  my  prince,  her  failing  age  sustain, 
«'  In  thee  her  much  loved  child  may  live  again  ; 
*'  Her  dying  hours  with  pious  conduct  bless, 
"  Assist  her  wants,  relieve  her  fond  distress  ; 
*'  So  dear  a  hope  must  all  my  soul  enflame, 
"  To  rise  in  glory,  or  to  fall  in  fame,' 


44        TRANSLATIONS  AND  IMITATIONS^ 

Struck  witli  a  filial  care,  so  deeply  felt, 

In  tears  at  once  the  Trojan  warriors  melt ; 

Faster  than  all  lulus'  eyes  o'erflow, 

Such  love  was  hi?,  and  such  had  been  his  woe. 

"  All  thou  hast  ask'd,  receive,"  the  prince  reply'd, 

"  Nor  this  alone,  but  many  a  gift  beside  ; 

"  To  cheer  thy  mother's  years  shall  be  my  aim, 

"  Creusa's*  style,  but  wanting  to  the  dame  ; 

'•  Fortune  an  adverse  wayward  course  may  run, 

''  But  blest  thy  mother,  in  so  dear  a  son. 

''  New,  by  my  life,  my  sire's  most  sacred  oath, 

''  To  thee  I  pledge  my  full,  my  firmest  troth, 

"  All  the  rewards  nhich  once  to  thee  were  vow'd, 

"  If  thou  should'st  fall,  on  her  shall  be  bestow'd." 

'J'hus  spoke  the  weeping  prince,  then  fcrth  to  view, 

A  gleaming  falchion  from  the  sheath  he  drew; 

Lycaon's  uimost  skill  had  grac'd  the  steel, 

For  friends  to  envy,  and  for  foes  to  feel. 

A  tawny  liide,  the  Moorish  lion's  spoil. 

Slain  midst  the  forest,  in  the  hunter's  toil, 

Mnestheus  to  guard  the  elder  youth  bestows, 

And  old  Alelhes'  casque  defends  bis  brows  : 

Arm'd,  thence  they  go,  while  all  the  assembl'd  train, 

To  aid  their  cause,  implore  the  gods  in  vain  ; 

More  than  a  boy,  in  wisdom  and  in  grace, 

lulus  holds  amidst  the  chiefs  his  place. 

His  prayers  he  sends,  but  what  can  prayers  avail ! 

Lost  in  the  murmurs  of  the  sighing  gale  ? 

The  trenrh  is  past,  and  favour'd  by  the  night, 
Through  sleeping  foes,  they  wheel  their  wary  flight  ; 
When  shall  the  sleep  of  many  a  foe  be  o'er  ? 
Alas  !  some  slumber,  who  shall  wake  no  more  ! 
Chariots  and  bridles,  mix'd  with  arms  are  seen. 
And  flowing  flasks,  and  scattered  troops  between  ; 
Bacchus  and  Alars,  to  rule  the  camp,  combine, 
A  mingl'd  Chaos,  this,  of  war  and  wine. 
Now,  cries  the  first,  "  for  deeds  of  blood  prepare, 
"  With  me  the  conquest  and  the  labour  share  ; 
"  Here  lies  our  path,  lest  any  hand  arise, 
«'  Watch  thou,  while  many  a  dreaming  chieftain  dies; 
"  I'll  carve  our  passage,  through  the  heedless  foe, 
"  And  clear  thy  road,  with  many  a  deadly  blow. 

*  The  mother  of  lulus,  lost  on  the  night  when  Troy  was 
taken. 


TRANSLATIONS  AND  IMITATIONS.        45 

His  whispering  accents  then  the  youth  represt, 

And  pierc'd  proud  Rhamnes  through  his  panting  breast, 

Stretch'd  at  his  ease,  the  incautious  king  repos'd, 

Debauch,  and  not  fatigue,  his  eye*  had  clos'd  j 

To  Turnus  dear,  a  prophet  and  a  prince. 

His  omens  more  than  augur's  skill  evince  : 

But  he  who  thus  foretold  the  fate  of  all. 

Could  not  avert  his  own  untimely  fall. 

Next  Remus'  armour-bearer,  hapless  fell. 

And  three  unhappy  slaves  the  carnage  swell ; 

The  charioteer,  along  his  courser's  sides, 

Expires,  the  steel  his  sever'd  neck  divides; 

And,  last,  his  Lord  is  number'd  with  the  dead. 

Bounding  convulsive,  flies  the  gasping  head  ; 

From  the  swol'n  veins,  the  blackening  torrents  pour, 

Stain 'd  is  the  couch  and  earth,  with  clotting  gore. 

Young  Laroyrus  and  Lamus  next  expire. 

And  gay  Serrauus  fiU'd  with  youthful  fire; 

Half  the  long  night  in  childish  games  was  past, 

Lull'd  by  the  potent  grape,  he  slept  at  last ; 

Ah  !   happier  far,  had  he  the  morn  survey'd, 

And,  'till  Aurora's  dawn,  his  skill  display'd.. 

In  slaughter'd  folds,  the  keepers  lost  in  sleep. 
His  hungry  fangs  a  lion  thus  may  steep  ; 
'Mid  the  sad  flock,  at  dead  of  nigh',  he  prowls, 
"With  murder  glutted,  and  in  carnage  rolls  ; 
Insatiate  siill,  through  teeming  herds  he  roams. 
In  seas  of  gore,  the  lordly  tyrant  foams. 

Nor  less  the  other  deadly  vengeance  came, 
But  falls  on  feeble  crowds  without  a  name  ; 
His  wound,  unconscious  Fadus,  scarce  can  feel. 
Yet,  wakeful  Rhtesus  sees  the  ihreat'ning  steel ; 
His  coward  breast  behind  a  jar  he  hide?. 
And,  vainly,  in  the  weak  defence  confides  ; 
Full  in  his  heart,  the  falchion  search'd  his  veins, 
The  reeking  weapon  bears  alternate  stains  j 
Through  wine  and  blood,  commingling  as  they  flow, 
The  feeble  spirit  seeks  the  shades  below. 
Now,  where  Messapus  dwelt,  they  bend  their  way. 
Whose  fires  emit  a  faint  and  trembling  ray  ; 
There,  unconfin'd,  behold  each  grazing  steed, 
Unwatch'd,  unheeded,  on  the  herbage  feed  ; 
Brave  Ni&us  here  arrests  his  comrade's  arm, 
Too  flush'd  with  carnage,  and  with  conquest  warm :. 


4«        TRANSLATIONS  AND  IMITATIONSi 

<<  Hence  let  us  haste,  the  dangerous  path  is  past, 
"  Full  foes  enough,  to-night,  have  brealh'd  their  last ;. 
"  Soon  will  the  Day  those  Eastern  clouds  adorn, 
*'  Now  let  us  speed,  nor  tempt  the  rising  morn." 

What  silver  arms,  with  various  art  embost ; 
What  bowls  and  mantles,  in  confusion  tost. 
They  leave  regardless  !  yet,  one  glittering  prize, 
Attracts  the  younger  Hero's  wandering  eyes  ; 
The  gilded  harness  R-hamnes'  coursers  felt, 
The  gems  w!)ich  stud,  the  monarch's  golden  belt; 
This  from  the  pallid  corse  was  quickly  torn, 
Once  by  a  line  of  former  chieftains  worn. 
Th'  exulting  boy,  the  studded  girdle  wejrs, 
Messapus'  helm  his  head,  in  triumph,  bears; 
Then  from  the  tents  their  cautious  steps  they  bend. 
To  seek  the  vale,  where  safer  paths  extend. 

Just  at  ihig  hour,  a  band  of  Latian  horse, 
To  Turnus'  camp,  pursue  their  destin'd  course  ; 
While  the  slow  foot,  their  tardy  march  delay, 
The  knights  impatient  spur  along  the  way  : 
Three  hundred  mail-clad  men,  by  Volscens  led. 
To  Turnus,  with  their  master's  promise  sped  ; 
Now  they  approach  the  trench,  and  view  the  walls^ 
When,  on  the  left,  a  light  reflection  falls. 
The  plunder'd  helmit,  through  the  waning  night, 
Sheds  forth  a  silver  radiance,  glancing  bright; 
Volscens,  with  question  loud,  the  pair  alarms^ 
"  Stand,  stragglers  !   stand  !   why  early  thus  in  arir.=^  '•' 
"  From  whence,  to  whom?"  he  meets  with  no  reply. 
Trusting  the  covert  of  the  night  they  fly; 
The  thickets  depth,  wiih  hunied  pace  they  tread. 
While  round  the  wood  the  hostile  squadron  spread. 

With  brakes  entangled,  scarce  a  path  between, 
Dreary  and  dark  appears  the  sylvan  scene; 
Euryalus,  his  heavy  spoils  innpede, 
The  boughs  and  winding  turns  his  steps  mislead; 
But  Nisus  scours  along  the  forea's  mazi, 
To  where  Latinus'  steeds  in  safety  graze  ; 
Then  backward  o'er  the  plain  his  eyes  extend. 
On  ev'ry  side  they  seek  his  absent  friend. 
"  O  God  !  iny  boy,"   he  cries,  "  of  me  bereft, 
"  In  what  impending  perils  art  thou  left!" 
Listening  he  runs  —  above  the  waving  trees. 
Tumultuous  voices  sweli  the  passing  breeze  ; 


TRANSLATIONS  AND  IMITATIONS.       47 

The  war-cry  rises,  thundering  hoofs    around 

Wake  the  dark  echoes  of  the  trembling  ground. 

Again  he  turns — of  footsteps  hears  the  noise, 

The  sound  elates  — the  sight  his  hope  destroys, 

The  hapless  boy,  a  ruffian  train  surround  — 

While  lengthening  shades,  his  weary  way  confound  j 

Him,  with  loud  shouts,  the  furious  knights  pursue, 

Struggling  in  vain  — >  a  captive  to  the  crew. 

What  can  his  friend  'gainst  thronging  numbers  dare? 

Ah  !   must  he  rush,  his  comrade's  fate  to  share  ! 

What  force,  wliat  aid,  what   stratagem  essay, 

Back  to  redeem  the  Latian  spoilers'  prey! 

His  life  a  votive  ransom  nobly  give, 

Or  die  with  him,  for  whom  he  wish'd  to  live  ! 

Poising  with  strengtli  his  lifted  lance  on  high, 

On  Luna's  orb  he  cast  his  phrenzied  eye  — 

«'  Goddess  serene,  transcending  every  star  ! 

•'  Queen  of  the  sky  !   whose  beams  are  seen  afar  ; 

'■  By  night,  heaven  owns  thy  sway,  by  day,  the  grove, 

«'  Wben,  as  chaste   Dian,  here  thou  deign'st  to  rove; 

"  If  e'er  myself,  or  sire,  have  sought  to  grace 

"  Thine  altars,  with  the  prbduce  of  the  chace; 

"  Speed,  speed,  my  dart,  to  pierce  yoss  vaunting  crowd, 

"  To  free  my  friend,  and  scatter  far  the  proud." 

Thus  having  said,  the  hissing  dart  he  flung, 

Through  parting  shades  the  hurling  vreapon  sung; 

The  thirsty  point  in  Sulmo's  entrails  lay, 

Transfix'd  his  heart,  and  stretch'd  him  on  the  clay  ; 

He  sobs,  he  dies,  —  t!ie   troop,  in  wild  amcze, 

Unconscious  whence  the  death,  with  horror  gaze; 

While  pale  they  stare— thro'  Tagus'  temples  riven, 

A  second  shaft,  with  equal  force,  is  driven  ; 

Fierce  Volscens  rolls  around  his  lowering  eyes, 

Veil'd  by  the  night,  secure   the  Trojan  lies. 

Burning  with  wrath,  he  vicw'd  his  soldiers  fall ; 

•'  Thou  youtli  accurst,  thy  life  shall  pay  for  all  ;" 

Quick  from  the  sheath  his  flaming  glaive  ha  drew. 

And,  raging,  on  the  boy  defenceless  flew. 

Nisus,  no  more  the  blackening  shade  conceals. 

Forth,  forth  he  starts,   and  ail   bis  love  reveals  — 

Aghast,  confu'i'd,  his  fears  to  madness  rise. 

And  pour  these  accents,  shrieking  as  he  flies ; 

"  Me,  me,  your  vengeance  hurl,  on  me  alone, 

"  Here  sheath  the  steel,  my  blood  is  all  your  own  ; 

"  Ye  starry  Spheres  !   thou  conscious  Heaven  attest : 

"  He  could  not — durst  not — lo  ;  the  guile  confest ! 

"  All,  all  was  mine —  his  early  fate  suspend, 

*'  He  only  lov'd,  too  well,  his  hapless  friend 


^8        TRANSLATIONS  AND  IMITATIONS. 

"  Spare,  spare  ye  Chiefs !  from  him  your  rage  remove, 

"  His  fault  was  friendship,  all  his  crime  was   love." 

He  pray'd  in  vain,  the  dark  assassin's  sword, 

Pierc'd  the  fair  side,  the  snowy  bosom  gor'd  ; 

Lowly  to  earili,  inclines  his  plume-clad  crest ; 

And  sanguine  torrents,  mantle  o'er  his  breast. 

As  some  young  rose,   whose  blossom  scents  the  air. 

Languid  in  death,  expires  beneath  the  share; 

Or  crimson  poppy,  sinking  with   the  shower, 

Declining  gently,  falls  a  fading  flower; 

Thus  sweetly  drooping,   bends   his  iovely  head, 

And  lingering  Beauty  hovers  round  the  dead. 

Birt  fiery  Nisus  stems  the  battle's  tide, 
Revenge  his  leader,  and  Despair  his  guide ; 
Volscens  he  seeks,  amidst  the  gathering  host, 
Volscens  must  soon  appease  his  comrade's  ghost; 
Steel,  flashing,  pours  on  steel,  foe  crowds  on  foe. 
Rage  nerves  liis  arm.   Fate  gleams  in   ev'ry  blow  ; 
In  vain  beneath  unnumber'd  wounds  he  bleeds. 
Nor  wounds,  nor  death,  distracted  Nisus  heeds; 
In  viewless  circles  wheel'd.    bis  falchion  flies. 
Nor  quits  the  Hero's  grasp,  till   Volscens  dies, 
Deep  in  his  throat,  its  end  the  weapon  found. 
The  tyrant's  soul  fled   groaning  tlirough  the  wound. 
Thus  Nisus  all  his  fond  affection  prov'd. 
Dying,  reveng'd   the  fate  of  him  he  lov'd  ; 
Then  on  his  bosom,   sought  his   wonted  place, 
And  death  was  heavenly,  in   his  friend's  embrace  ! 

Celestial  pair  !   if  aught  my  verse  can  claim. 
Wafted  on  Time's  broad  pinion,  yours  is  fame  ! 
Ages  on  ages,  shall  your  fate  admire 
No  future  day,  shall  see  your  names  expire ; 
While  stands  the  Capitol,  immortal  dome  ! 
And  vanquish'd  millions,  hail  their  empress,  Rome 


TRANSLATION 

FROM    THE    MEDEA    OF    EURIPIDES. 

WHEN  fierce  conflicting  passions  urge 
The  breast,  where   love  is  wont  to  glow. 

What   mind  can  stem  the  stormy  surge. 
Which  rolls  the  tide  of  human  woe  ? 


TRANSLATIONS  AND  IMITATIONS.        49 

The  hope  of  praise,  the  dread  of  shame, 

Can  rouse   the  tortur'd  breast  no  more  ; 
The  wild   desire,  the  guilty  flame, 
Absorbs  eacb  wish  it  felt  before. 
2. 
But,    if  alTection  gently  thrills 

The  soul,  by  purer  dreams  possest, 
The  pleasing   balm  of  mortal  ills, 

In  love  can  soothe  the  aching  breast ; 
If  thus,  thou  com'st  in  gentle  guise. 

Fair  Venus  !   from  thy  native  heaven, 
What  heart,  unfeeling,    would  despise 

The  sweetest  boon  the  gods  have  given  ? 
3. 
But,  never  from  thy  golden  bow, 

May  I  beneath  the   shaft  expire. 
Whose   creeping  venom,  sure  and  slow, 

Awakes  an  all-consuming  fire  ; 
Ye  racking  doubts  !  ye  jealous  fears  ! 

With  others  wage  internal  war  ; 
Repentance  !  source  of  future  tears, 
From  me  be  ever  distant  far. 
4. 
May   no  distracting  thoughts  destroy 

The  holy  calm  of  sacred  love  ! 
May  all  the  hours  be  wing'd  with  joy, 

Which  hover  faithful  hearts  above  ! 
Fair  Venus!   on  thy  myrtle  shrine. 

May  I   with  some    fond  lover  sigh  ! 
Whose  heart  may  mingle  pure  with  mine. 
With  me  to  live,  with  me  to  die. 
5. 
My  native  soil,  belov'd  before. 

Now  dearer,  as  my  peaceful  home. 
Ne'er  may  I  quit  thy  rocky  shore, 

A  hapless,  banished  wretch  to  roam  ; 
This  very  day,  this  very  hour, 

May   I  resign   this  fleeting  breath, 
Nor  quit  my  silent  humble  bower  ; 
A  doom,  to  me,  far  worse  than  death. 
6. 
Have  I  not  heard  the  exile  sigh  ? 
And  seen  the  exile's  silent  tear? 
Through  distant  climes  condumn'd  to  fly, 
A  pensive,  weary  wand'rcr  here; 
£ 


50  FUGITIVE  PIECES. 

Ah  !  hapless  dame!*  no  sire  bewails, 

No  friend  thy  wretched  fate  deplores, 
Ko  kindred  voice  with  rapture  hails 

Thy  steps,  within  a  stranger's  doors. 
7. 
Perish  the  fiend  !   whose  iron  heart, 

To  fair  affection's  truth  unknown. 
Bids  her,  he  fondly  lov'd  depart, 

Unpitied,  lielpless,  and  alone  ; 
Who  ne'er  unlocks,  wiih  silver  key,f 

The  milder  treasures  of  his  soul , 
May  such  a  friend  be  far  from  me, 

And  Ocean's  storms  between  us  roll ! 

*  Medea,  who  accompanied  Jason  to  Corinth,  was  deserted 
by  bim  for  the  daughter  of  Creon,  king  of  that  city.  The 
Chorus  from  which  this  is  taken  here  address  Medea  ;  though 
a  considerable  liberty  is  taken  with  the  original,  by  expanding 
the  idea,  as  also  in  some  other  parts  of  the  translation. 

f  The  original  is  "  Ka3'apa^  avoiL.ai'ri  K\r?i?a  </>pf- 
Viov"  literally,  "  disclosing  the  bright  Key  of  the  mind." 


m-r 


J^utjitibt  pieces* 


THOUGHTS  SUGGESTED  BY  A  COLLEGE 
EXAMINATION.* 

HIGH  in  the  midst,  surroanded  by  his  peers, 
Magnus  his  ample  front  sublime  uprears ; 
Plac'd  on  his  chair  of  state,  he  seems  a  God, 
While  Sophs  and  Freshmen  tremble  at  his  nod. 

*  No  refleciton  is  here  intended  against  the  person  men- 
tioned under  the  name  of  Magnus.  He  is  merely  represented 
as  performing   an  unavoidable  function  of  his  office;  indeed. 


FUGITIVE  PIECES.  SI 

As  ail  around  sit  wrapt  in  speechless  gloom, 
His  voice,  in  thunder,  shakes  the  sounding  dome  ; 
Denouncing  dire  reproach  to  luckless  fools, 
UnskiU'd  to  plod  in  mathematic  rules. 

Happy  the  youih  !  in  Euclid's  axioms  tried, 
Though  little  vers'd  in  any  art  beside  ; 
Who,  scarcely  skill'd  an  English  line  to  pen, 
Scans  Atiic  metres,  with  a  critic's  ken. 
What !  though  he  knows  not  how  his  fathers  bled, 
When  civil  discord  pil'd  the  fields  with  dead ; 
When  Edward  bade  his  conquering  bands  advance. 
Or  Henry  trampled  on  the  crest  of  France  ; 
Though,  marv'lling  at  the  name  of  Magna  Charta, 
Yet,  well  he  recollects  the  laws  of  Sparta ; 
Can  tell  what  edicts  sage  Lycurgus  made, 
Whilst  Elackstone  's  on  the  shelf,  neglected,  laid; 
Of  Grecian  dramas  vaunts  the  deathless  fame. 
Of  Avon's  bard,  rememb'ring  scarce  the  name. 

Such  is  the  youth,  whose  scientific  pate, 
Class  honours,  medals,  fellowships,  await ; 
Or,  even,  perhaps,  the  declamation  prize. 
If,  to  sucti  glorlou3  height,  he  lifts  his  eyes. 
But,  lo !  no  common  orator  can  hope. 
The  envied  silver  cup  within  his  scope ; 
Not  that  our  heads  much  eloquence  require, 
Th'  Athenian's  glowing  style,  or  Tully's  fire. 
A  manner  clear  or  warm  is  useless,  since 
We  do  not  try,  by  speaking,  to  convince ; 
Be  other  orators  of  pleasing  proud. 
We  speak,  to  please  ourselves,  not  move  the  crowd : 
Our  gravity  prefers  the  muttering  tone, 
A  proper  mixture  of  the  squeak  and  groan  ; 
No  borrow'd  grace  of  action,  must  be  seen. 
The  slightest  motion  would  displease  the  dean  ; 
Whilst  ev'ry  staring  graduate  would  prate, 
Againit  what  he  could  never  imitate. 

The  man,  who  hopes  to  obtain  the  promis'd  cup, 
Must  in  one  posture  stand,  and  ne'er  look  up  ; 


such  an  attempt  could  only  recoil  upon  myself;  as  that  gentle- 
man is  now  as  much  distinguished  by  his  eloquence,  and  the 
dignified  propriety  with  which  he  fills  his  situation,  as  he  was 
in  his  younger  days,  for  \nt  and  conviviality. 


52  FUGITIVE  pieces: 

Nor  stop,  but  rattle  over  every  word. 
No  matter  what,  so  it  can  not  be  heard  ; 
Thus  let  him  hurry  on,  nor  think  to  rest ; 
Who  speaks  the  fastest  's  sure  to  speak  the  b€St  ? 
Who  utters  most  within  the  shortest  space, 
May,  safely,  hope  to  win  the  wordy  race. 

The  sons  of  science,  these,  who  thus  repaid, 
Linger  in  ease,  in  Granta's  sluggish  shade; 
Where  on  Cam's  sedgy  banks  supine  they  lie. 
Unknown,  unhonour'd  live,  —  unwept  for,  die; 
Dull  as  the  pictures,  which  adorn  their  halls, 
They  think  all  learning  fix'd  within  their  walls ; 
In  manners  rude,  in  foolish  forms  precise, 
All  modern  arts,  affecting  to  despise  ; 
Yet  prizing  Bentley's,*  Brunck's*  or  PoRsoN'sf  note. 
More  than  the  verse,  on  which  the  critic  wrote ; 
With  eager  haste,  they  court  the  lord  of  power. 
Whether  'tis  Pitt  or  P — ttt  rules  the  hour  ;^ 
To  him,  with  suppliant  smiles,  they  bend  the  head. 
While  distant  mitres,  to  their  eyes  are  spread ; 
But,  should  a  storm  o'erwhelra  him  with  disgrace. 
They'd  fly  to  seek  the  next,  who  fiU'd  his  placo. 
Such  are  ihe  men,  who  learning's  treasures  guard, 
Such  is  their  practice,  such  is  their  reward; 
This  much,  at  least,  we  may  presume  to  say  ; 
The  premium  can't  exceed  tho  price  they  pay. 

1806. 

•  *  Celebrated  Critics. 

f  The  present  Greek  Professor  at  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge ;  a  man  whose  powers  of  mind,  and  writings,  may 
perhaps  justify  their  preference. 

I  Since  this  was  written.  Lord  H.  P — y,  has  lost  his  place, 
and  subsequently,  (I  had  almost  said  consequently)  the 
honour  of  representing  the  University  ;  a  fact  so  glaring 
requires  no  comment. 


FUGITIVE  PIECES.  53 

ANSWER  TO  SOME  ELEGANT  VERSES, 
Sent  hy  a  Frietid  to  tJie  Anthw^, 

COMPLAINING  THAT  ONE  OF  HIS  DESCRIITCIONS  WAS 
EATHEa  TOO  WARMLY  DRAWN. 


"  But,  if  any  old  Lady,  Knight,  Priest,  or  Physician, 
"  Should  condemn  me  lor  printing  a  second  edition  ; 
"  If  good  Madam  Squintum  my  work  should  abuse, 
"  May  I  venture  to  give  her  a  smack  of  my  muse  ?" 

Anstey's  New  Bath  Guide,  page  169. 


CANDOUR  compels  me,  B— h— n  !  to  commend, 
Tlie  verse,  which  blends  the  censor  with  the  friend  j 
Your  strong,  jet  just,  reproof,  extorts  applause, 
From  me,  the  heedless  and  imprudent  cause; 
For  this  wild  error,  which  pervades  my  strain, 
I  sue  for  pardon,  —  must  I  sue  in  vain  ? 
The  wise,  sometimes,  from  Wisdom's  ways  depart  j 
Can  youth  then  hush  the  dictates  of  the  heart  ? 
Precepts  of  prudence  curb,  but  can't  controJ, 
The  fierce  emotions  of  the  flowing  soul. 
When  Love's  delirium  haunts  the  glowing  mind. 
Limping  Decorum  lingers  far  behind  ; 
Vainly  the  dotard  mends  her  prudish  pace, 
Outstript  and  vanquish'd  in  the  mental  chase ; 
The  young,  the  old,  have  worn  the  chains  of  love. 
Let  those,  they  ne'er  confin'd,  my  lay  reprove : 
Let  those,  whose  souls  contemn  the  pleasing  power, 
Their  censures  on  the  hapless  victim  shower ; 
Oh  !  how  I  hate  the  nerveless  frigid  song. 
The  ceaseless  echo  of  the  rhyming  throng; 
Whose  labour'd  lines  in  chilling  numbers  flow, 
To  paint  a  pang  the  author  ne'er  can  know. 
The  artless  Helicon,  I  boast,  is  Youth  ; 
My  Lyre,  the  Heart  ;  —  my  muse,  the  simple  Truth : 
Far  be't  from  me,  the  "  virgin's  mind"  to  "  taint," 
Seduction's  dread,  is  here  no  slight  restraint ; 
The  maid,  whose  virgin  breast  is  void  of  guile. 
Whose  wishes  dimple  in  a  modest  smile; 
Whose  downcast  eye  disdains  the  wanton  leer, 
Firm  in  her  virtue's  strength,  yet  not  severe ; 
She,  whom  a  conscious  grace  shall  thus  refine. 
Will  ne'er  be  "  tainted"  by  a  strain  of  mine. 
s2 


J4  FUGITIVE  PIECES. 

But,  for  the  nymph,  whose  premature  deslrea 
Torment  her  bosom  with  unholy  fires, 
No  net  to  snare  her  willing  heart  is  spread, 
She  %vould  have  fallen,  tho'  she  ne'er  had  read. 
For  me,  I  fain  would  please  the  chosen  few, 
Whose  souls,  to  feeling,  and  to  nature  true, 
Will  spare  the  childish  verse,  and  not  destroy, 
The  light  effusions  of  a  heedless  boy.     ' 
I  seek  not  glory  from  the  senseless  crowd, 
Of  fancied  laurels,  I  shall  ne'er  be  proud  ; 
Their  warmest  plaudits  I  would  scarcely  prize, 
Their  sneers,  or  censures,  I  alike  despise. 


GRANTA,  A  MEDLEY. 

ApyvpeaiQ  Xoy-^aiai  fJ^axs  (cat  Travra  Kpar/jffatg. 


OH  !  could  Le  Sage's*  demon's  gift. 

Be  realiz'd  at  my  desire ; 
This  night  my  trembling  form  he'd  lift, 

To  place  it  on  St.  Mary's  spire, 
2, 
Then  would,  unroof'd,  old  Granta's  halls 

Pedantic  inmates   full  display  ; 
Fellows,  who  dream  on  lawn,  or  staJis, 

The  price  of  venal  votes  to  pay. 
3. 
Then  would  I  view  each  rival  wight, 

P — tty  and  P — Im — s — n  survey  ; 
Who  canvass  there,  with  all  their  might. 

Against  the  next  elective  day. 
4. 
Lo  !   candidates  and  voters  lie. 

All  luU'd  in  sleep,  a  goodly  number ! 
A  race  renown'd  for  piety. 

Whose  conscience  wont  disturb  their  slumber. 

♦  The  Diable  Boiteux  of  La  Sage,  where  Asmodeus,  the 
Demon,  places  Don  Cleofas  on  an  elevated  situation,  and  uii- 
xoofs  the  houses  for  his  inspection. 


FUGITIVE  PIECES.  S5 

5. 
Lord  H         ,  indeed,  may  net  demur, 

Fellows  are  sage,  reflecting,  men  ; 
They  know  preferment  can  occur, 

But  very  seldom,  now  and  then. 
6. 
The  know  the  Chancellor  has  got 

Some  pretty  livings,  in  disposal  ; 
Each  hopes  that  one  may  be  his  lot, 

And,  therefore,  smiles  on  his  proposal. 
7. 
Now,  from  the  soporific  scene, 

I'll  turn   mine  eye,  as  night  grows  later. 
To  view,  unheeded,   and  unseen, 

The  studious  sons  of  Alma  Mater. 
8. 
There,  in  apartments  small  and  damp 

The  candidate   for  College  prizes, 
Sits  poring  by  the  midnight  lamp, 

Goes  late  to  bed,  yet  early  rises. 
9. 
He  surely  well  deserves  to  gain  them, 

With  all  the  honours  of  his  college. 
Who,  striving  hardly  to  obtain  them. 

Thus  seeks  unprofitable  knowledge* 
10. 
Who  sacrifices  hours  of  rest, 

To  scan  precisely  metres  Attic  ; 
Or  agitates  his  anxious  breast. 

In  solving  problems  malhematic. 
11. 
Who  reads  false  quantities  in  Sele,* 

Or  puzzles  o'er   the  deep  triangle  ; 
Depriv'd  of  many  a  wholesome  meal, 

In  barbarous  latinf  doom'd  to  wrangle* 
12. 
Renouncing  every  pleasing  page, 

From  authors  of  historic  us«  ; 
Preferring  to  the  lettered  sage. 

The  square  of  the  hypothenuse.|- 

*  Sele's  publication  on  Greek  metres,  displays  considera- 
ble talent  and  ingenuity  ;  but,  as  might  be  expected  in  so  difi. 
ficult  a  work,  is  not  remarkable  for  accuracy. 

f  The  Latin  of  the  schools  is  of  the  canine  species,  and 
not  very  intelligible. 

i  The  discovery  of  Pythagoras,  that  the  square  of  the  hy- 


56  FUGITIVE  PIECES. 

15. 

Still  harmless  are  these  occupations, 

That  hurt  none  but  the  hapless  student, 
Compared  with  other  recreations. 

Which  bring  together  the  imprudent. 
14. 
Whose  daring  revels  shock  the  sight, 

When  vice  and  infamy  combine} 
When  diunkenness  and  dice  unite, 

As  every  sense  is  steep'd  in  wine. 
15. 
Not  so,  the  methodistic  crew, 

Who  plans  of  reformation  lay; 
In  humble  attitude  they  sue, 

And  for  the  sins  of  others  pray. 
16. 
Forgetting  that  their  pride  of  spirit, 

Their  exultation  in  their  triiil  j 
Detracts,  most  largely,  from  the  merit 

Of  all  their  boasted  self-denial. 
17. 
'Tis  morn, — from  these  I  turn  my  sight. 

What  scene  is  this,  which  meets  the  eye? 
A  numerous  crowd,  array'd  in  white,* 

Across  the  green  in  numbers  fly. 
18. 
Loud  rings,  in  air,  tho  chapel  bell ; 

'Tis  hush'd;   What  sounds  are  these  I  hear? 
The  organ's  soft  celestial  swell. 

Rolls  deeply  on  the  listening  ear. 
19. 
To  this  is  join'd  the  sacred  song. 

The  royal  minstrel's  hallowed  strain  ; 
Though  he,  who  hears  the  music  long, 

Will  naver  wish  to  hear  again. 
20. 
Our  choir  would  scarcely  be  excus'd, 

Even  a  as  band  of  raw   beginners; 
All  mercy,  now,  must  be  refu»'d 

To  such  a  set  of  croaking  sinners. 
21. 
If  David,  when  his  toils  were  ended. 

Had  heard  these  blockheads  sing  before  him, 


pothenuse  is  equal  to  the  squares  of  the  other  two  sides  of  a 
right  angled  triangle. 

*  On  a  Saint  Day,  the  Students  wear  surplices,  in  ChapeL 


FUGITIVE  PIECES.  57 

To  us,  his  psalms  bad  ne'er  descended, 
In  furiou*  mood  he  would  have  tore  'em. 
22. 
The  luckless  Israelites,  when  taken, 

By  some  inhuman  tyrant's  order,^ 
Were  ask'd   to  sing,  by  joy  forsaken. 
On   Babylonian  river's  border. 
23. 
Oh  !  had  they  sung  in  noteg  like  these, 

Inspir'd  by  stratagem,  or  fear  ; 
They  D^.ight    have   set  their  hearts  at  ease, 
The  devil  a  soul  had  ttay'd  to  bear. 
24. 
But,  if  I  scribble  longer  now, 

The  deuce  a  soul  will  stay  to  read  ; 
iVIy  pen  is  blunt,  my  ink  is  low, 
'Tis  almost  time  to  stop,  indeed. 
25. 
Therefore,  farewell,  old  Granta's  spires, 

No  more,  like  Cleofas,   I  fly, 
Ko  more  thy  theme  my  muse  inspires, 
Tlje  reader  's  lir'd,  and  so  am  I. 

1806, 


LACHIN  Y.  GAIR. 

Lachin  r.  QAiR,  or,  as  it  is  pronounced  in  the  Erse,  Loch  ka 
Gaer,  towers  proudly  pre-eminent  in  the  Northern  High- 
lands, near  Invercauld.  One  of  our  modern  Tourists  men- 
tions it  as  the  highest  mountain  perhaps  in  Great  Britain  ; 
be  this  as  it  may,  it  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  sublime 
and  pictusesque,  amongst  our  "  Caledonian  Alps."  Its 
appearance  is  of  a  dusky  hue,  but  the  summit  is  the  seat 
of  eternal  snows;  near  Lachin  y.  Gair,  I  spent  some  of  tha 
early  part  of  my  life,  the  recollection  of  which,  has  given 
birth  to  the  following  Stanzas. 

AVV  AT,  ye  gay  landscapes  !  ye  gardens  of  roses  ! 

In  you  let  the  minions  of  luxury  rove; 
Restore  me  the  Rocks,   where  the  snow-fluke  reposes, 

Though  still  they  are  sacred  to  freedom  and^love; 
Yet,  Caledonia  !  belov'd  are  thy  mountains, 

Round  their  white  summits  though  elements  war, 


58  FUGITIVE  PIECES. 

Though  cataracts  foam,  'stead  of  smooth  flowing  fountaifls, 

I  sigh  for  the  valley  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr, 

2. 
Ah  !  there  my  young  footsteps,  in  infancy  wander'd. 

My  cap  was  the  bonnet,  my  cloak  was  the  plaid  ;* 
On  chieftains,  long  perish'd,  my  memory  ponder'd, 

As  daily  I  strode  through  the  pine  cover'd  glade  ; 
I  sought  not  my  liome,  till  the  day's  dying  glory 

Gave  place  to  the  rays  of  the  bright  polar  star ; 
For  Fancy  was  cheer'd  by  traditional  story, 

Disclos'd  by  the  natives  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

3. 
"  Shades  of  the  dead  !  have  I  not  heard  your  voices 

"  Rise  on  the  night-rolling  breath  of  the  gale?" 
Surely  the  soul  of  the  hero  rejoices, 

And  ride*  on  the  wind,  o'er  his  own  Highland  Tale  -. 
Round  Loch  na  Garr,  while  the  stormy  mist  gathers, 

Winter  presides  in  his  cold  icy  car ; 
Clouds  there  encircle  the  forms  of  my  Fathers, 

They  dwell  in  the  tempests  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

4. 
"  111  starred.f  though  brave,  did  no  visions  fcireboding. 

"  Tell  you  that  Fate  had  forsaken  your  cause  ?'* 
Ah  !  were  you  dcsiin'd  to  die  at  Culioden,| 

Victory  crown'd  not  your  fall  wiih  cpplause, 
Still  were  you  happy  in  death's  earthy  slumber, 

You  rest  with  your  clan,  in  the  caves  of  Braemar,|j 
The  Pibroch^  resounds,  to  the  piper's  loud  number, 

Your  deeds  on  the  echoes  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

•  This  word  ia  erroneously  pronounced  plad,  the  proper 
pronunciation  (according  to  the  Scotch)  is  shewn  by  the  Or- 
thography. 

+  I  allude  here  to  my  maternal  ancestors,  the  "  Gordons," 
many  of  whom  fought  for  the  unfortunate  Prince  Charlus, 
better  known  by  the  name  of  the  Pretender.  This  branch 
was  nearly  allied  by  blood,  as  well  as  attachment,  to  the  Stlt- 
AftTS.  George,  the  2d  Earl  of  Huntley,  married  the  Princess 
Aonabella  Smart,  daughter  of  James  the  First  of  Scotland, 
by  her  he  left  four  sons ;  the  third,  Sir  William  Gordon,  I 
have  the  honour  to  claim  as  one  of  my  progenitors. 

I  Whether  any  perished  in  the  battle  of  Culloden,  I  am  not 
certain  ;  but  as  many  fell  in  the  insurrection,  I  have  used  the 
n:ime  of  the  principal  action,   "  pars  pro  toto." 

i|  A  tract  of  the  Highlands  so  called ;  there  is  also  a  Castio 
of  Braemar. 

*j  The  B?gpipe. 


FUGITIVE  PIECES.  59 

5. 
Years  have  roll'd  on,  Loch  na  Garr,  since  I  left  youj- 

Years  must  elapse,  e'er  I  '  ead  jou  again  ; 
Nature  of  verdure  and  flowers  has  bereft  you, 

Yet  still  are  you  dearer  than  Albion's  plain  ; 
England  !  thy  beauties  are  tame  and  domestic, 

To  one,  who  has  rov'd  on  the  mountains  afar  ; 
Oh  !  for  the  crags  that  are  wild  and  majestic, 

The  steep,  frovining  glories  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 


TO  ROMANCE. 

PARENT  of  golden  dreams,  Romance, 

Auspicious  Queen  !  of  cbildish  j^^ys, 
Who  lead'st  along  in  airy  dance, 

Tliy  votive  train  of  girls  and  boys  ; 
At  length,  in  spells  no   longer  bound, 

I  break  the  fetters  of  my  youth. 
No  more   I  tread  thy  mystic  round. 

But  leave  thy  realms  for  those  of  Truth. 
2. 
And,  yet,  'tis  hard  to  quit  the  dreams, 

Which  haunt  the  unsuspicious  soul. 
Where  every  nymph  a  goddess  seems, 

Whose  eyes  through  rays  immortal  roll ; 
While  P'ancy  holds  her  boundless  reign, 

And  all  assume  a  varied  hue. 
When  Virgins  seem  no  longer  vain. 

And  even  Woman's  smiles  are  true. 
3. 
And  must  we  own  thee,  but  a  name, 

And  from  thy  hall  of  clouds  descend? 
Nor  find  a  Sylph  in  every  dame, 

A  Pyladee*  in  every  friend  ; 
But  leave,  at  once,  thy  realms  of  air, 

To  mingling  bands  of  fairy  elves  ; 

*  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add,  that  Pylades  was  the  com- 
panion of  Orestes,  and  a  partner  in  one  of  tliose  friendships, 
which  with  those  of  Achilles  and  Patroclus,  Nisus  aud  Eury- 
alus,  Damon  and  Pythias,  have  been  handed  down  to  pos- 
terity, as  remarkable  instances  of  attachments  which  in  all 
probability  never  existed,  beyond  the  imagination  of  the  Poet, 
the  page  of  an  antieut  historian,  or  a  modern  novelist. 


60  FUGITIVE  PIECES, 

Confess  that  Woman  's  false  as  fair, 

And  friends  have  feeling  for  — —  themselves. 

4. 
With  shame,  I  own,  I've  .At  thy  sway, 

Repentant,  now  thy  reign  is  o'er, 
No  more  thy  precepts  I  obey, 

No  more  on  fancied  pinions  soar  ; 
Fond  fool  !  to  love  a  sparkling  eye, 

And  think  that  eye  to  Truth  v»as  dear, 
To  trust  a  passing  wanton's  sigh. 
And  melt  beneath  a  wanton's  tear. 
5. 
Romance  !  disgusted  with  deceit, 

Far  from  thy  motley  court  I  fly. 
Where  Affectation  hold»  her  seat. 

And  sickly  Sensibility  ; 
Whose  silly  tears  can  never  flow. 
For  any  pangs  excepting  thine. 
Who  turns  aside  from  real  woe. 
To  steep  in  dew  thy  gaudy  shrine. 
6. 
Now  join  with  sable  Sympathy, 

With  cypress  crown'd,  array'd  in  weed), 
Who  heaves  with  thee  her  simple  sigh. 

Whose  breast  for  every  bosom  bleeds ; 
And  call  thy  sylvan  female  quire, 

To  mourn  a  swain  for  ever  gone, 
Wlio  once  could  glow  with  equal  fire, 
Bui  bends  not  now  before  thy  throne« 
7. 
Ye  genial  nymphs  !  whose  ready  tears, 

On  all  occasions  swiftly  flow, 
Whose  bosoms  heave  with  fancied  fears, 

With  fancied  flames  and  phrenzy  glow  ; 
Say,  will  you  mourn  my  absent  name. 

Apostate  from  your  gentle  train  ? 
An  infant  Bard  at  least  may  claim, 
From  you  a  sympathetic  strain. 
8. 
Adieu,  fond  race,  a  long  adieu. 

The  hour  of  fate  is  hov'ring  nigh. 
Even    now  the  gulph  appears  in  view. 

Where  unlamented  you  must  lie  ; 
Oblivion's  blackening  lake  i«  seen, 

Convuls'd  by  gales  you  cannot  weather. 
Where  you,  and  eke  your  gentle  queen, 
Alas  I   must  perish  altogether. 


FUGITIVE  PIECES.  61 

ELEGY  ON  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY* 


It  is  tlie  voice  of  years  that  are  gone!  they  roll  before  me,  wi(h  all 
their  deeds.  Ossian. 


NEWSTEAD!  fast  falling,  once  resplendent  dome  ! 

Religion's  shrine  !   repentant  HEURv'sf  pride! 
Of  warriors,  monks,  and  dames,  the  cloister'd  tomb  ; 

Whose  pensive  shades  around  thy  ruins  glide, 

Hail  !   to  thy  pile  !  more  honour'd  in  thy  fall, 
Than  modern  mansions,  in  their  pillar'd  state; 

Proudly  majestic  frowns  thy  vaulted  hall, 
Scowling  defiance  on  the  blasts  of  fate. 

No  mail-clad  Serfs, |  obedient  to  their  Lord, 

In  grim  array,  the  crimson  cross(|  demand  ; 
Or  gay  assemble  round  the  festive  board, 

Tbeir  chief's  retainers,  an  immortal  band. 

Else  might  inspiring  Fancy's  magic  eye 

Retrace  their  progress,  through  the  lapse  of  time; 

Marking  each  ardent  youth,  ordain'd  to  die, 
A  votive  pilgrim,  in  Judea's  clime. 

But  not  from  thee,  dark  pile  !  departs  the  Chief, 

His  feudal  realm  in  other  regions  lay  ; 
In  thee,  the  wounded  conscience  courts  relief, 

Retiring  from  the  garish  blaze  of  day. 

Yes,  in  thy  gloomy  cells  and  shades  profound. 
The  Monk  abjur'd  a  world,  he  ne'er  could  view; 

Or  blood-stained  Guilt,  repenting  solace  found, 
Or  Innocence,  from  stern  Oppression,  flew. 

*  As  one  poem,  on  this  subject,  is  printed  in  the  begin- 
ning, the  author  had,  originally,  no  intention  of  inserting 
the  following;  it  is  now  added,  at  the  particular  request  of 
some  friends. 

f  Henry  II.  founded  Newstead,  soon  after  the  murder  of 
Thomas  a  Becket. 

^  This  word  is  used  by  Walter  Scolt,  in  i>is  poem,  "  The 
Wild  Huntsman  :"  synonymous  with  Vassal. 

II   The  lied  Cross  was  the  badge  of  the  Crusaders. 

F 


62  FUGITIVE  PIECES. 

A  Monarch  bade  thee,  from  that  wild  arise. 

Where  Sherwood's  outlaws,  once  were  wout  to  prowl ; 

And  Superstition's  crimes  of  various  dyes, 

Sought  shelter  in  the  Priest's  protecting  cowl. 

Where,  now,  the  grass  exhales  a  murky  dew, 

The  humid  pail  of  lit'e-exlinguish'd  clay  ; 
In  sainted  fame,  the  sacred  fathers  grew, 

Nor  raised  their  pious  voices  but  to  pray. 

Where,  now,  the  bats  their  wavering  wings  extend, 
Soon  as  the  Gloaming*  spreads  her  waning  shade; 

The  choii  did  oft  their  mingling  vetpers  blend, 
Or  matin  orisons  to  Maryf  paid. 

Years  roll  on  years;  to  ages,  ages  yield  ; 

Abbots  to  Abbots,  in  a  line  succeed  ; 
Religion's  charter,  their  protecting  shield, 

Till  royal  sacrilege  their  doom  decreed. 

One  holy  Henry|  rear'd  thegotbic  walls, 

And  bids  the  pious  inmates  rest  in  peace; 
Another  Henry  the  kind  gift  recalls, 

And  bids  devotion's  hallow'd  echoes  cease. 

Vain  is  each  threat,  or  supplicating  prayer, 
He  drives  them,  exiles,  from  their  blest  abode ; 

To  roam  a  dreary  world,  in  deep  despair. 
No  friend,  no  home,  no  refuge,  but  their  God. 

Hark  !  bow  the  hall,  resounding  to  the  strain, 

Shakes  with  the  martial  music's  novel  din  ! 
The  heralds  of  a  warrior's  haughty  reign. 

High  crested  banners,  wave  thy  walls  within. 

Of  changing  sentinels,  the  distant  hum. 

The  mirth  of  feasts,  the  clang  of  burnish'd  arms. 

The  braying  trumpet,  and  the  hoarser  drum. 
Unite  in  concert  with  increas'd  alarms. 

*  As  "  Gloaming,"  the  Scottish  word  for  Twilight,  is  far 
more  poetical,  and  has  been  recommended  by  many  eminent 
literary  men,  particularly  Dr.  Moore,  in  his  Letters  to  Burns, 
I  have  ventured  to  use  it  on  account  of  its  harmony. 

f   The  Priory  was  dedicated  to  (he  Virgin. 

f  At  the  dissolution  of  the  Monasteries,  Henry  VIII.  be- 
•  towed  Newstcad  Abbey  on  Sir  John  Byron. 


FUGITIVE  PIECES.  65 

An  abbey  once,  a  regal  fortress*  now, 

Encircled  by  insulting  rebel  powers  ; 
Wars  dread  machines  o'erhang  thy  threat'ning  brow, 

And  dart  destruction,  in  sulphureous  showers. 

Ah!  vain  defence  !  the  hostile  traitor's  siege. 

Though  oft  repuls'd,  by  guile  o'ercomes  ihe  braTe; 

His  thronging  foes  oppress  the  faithful  Liege, 
Rebellion's  reeking  standards  o'er  him  wave. 

Not  unaveng'd,  the  raging  Baron  yields, 

The  blood  of  traitors  smears  the  purple  plain  ; 

Unconquer'd,  still,  his  faulchion  there  he  wields, 
And  days  of  glory,  yet  for  him  remain. 

Still  in  that  hour  the  warrior  wish'd  to  strew, 
Self-gatbet'd  laurels,  on  a  self-sought  grave ; 

But  Charles'  protecting  genius  hither  flew, 

The  monarch's  friend,  the  monarch's  hope,  to  save. 

Trembling  she  snatch'd  himf  from  the  unequal  strife. 

In  other  fields,  the  torrent  to  repel ; 
For  nobler  combats,  here,  reserv'd  his  life. 

To  lead  the  band  where  godlike  Falkland ||  fell. 

From  thee,  poor  pile!  to  lawless  plunder  given. 
While  dying  groans  their  painful  requiem  sound. 

Far  different  incense,  now  ascends  to  heaven. 
Such  victims  wallow  on  the  gory  ground. 

There,  many  a  pale  and  ruthless  Robber's  corse. 

Noisome  and  ghast,  defiles  thy  sacred  sod ; 
O'er  mingling  man,  and  horse  commix'd  with  horse. 

Corruption's  heap  the  savage  spoilers  trod. 

*  Newstead  sustained  a  considerable  siege,  in  the  war  be- 
tween Charles  I.  and  his  Parliament. 

f  Lord  Byron,  and  his  brother.  Sir  William,  held  high 
commands  in  the  Royal  Army;  the  former  was  General-in- 
Chief  in  Ireland,  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  and  Governor 
to  James  Duke  of  York,  afterwards  the  unhappy  James  II. 
The  latter  had  a  principal  share  in  many  actions.  Vide, 
Clarendon,  Hume,  &c. 

II  Lucius  Cary,  Lord  Viscount  Falkland,  the  most  accom- 
plished man  of  his  age,  was  killed  at  the  battle  of  New- 
bery,  charging  in  the  ranks  of  Lord  jByron's  Regiment  of 
Cavalry. 


64  FUGITIVE  PIECES. 

Graves,  long  with  rank  and  sighing  weeds  o'erspread^ 
Ransack'd,  resign,  perforce,  their  inorial  mould  ; 

From  ruffian  fangs,  escape  not  e'en  the  dead, 
Rak'd  from  repose,  in  search  for  buried  gold. 

Hush'd  is  the  liarp,  unstrung  the  warlike  lyre, 
The  minstrel's  palsied  hand  reclines  in  death  ; 

No  itiore  he  strikes  the  quivering  chords  wiih  fire. 
Or  sings  the  glories  of  the  martial  wreath. 

At  length  the  sated  murderers,  gorged  with  prey. 
Retire,  the  clamsur  of  the  fight  is  o'er  ; 

Silence  again  lesurnes  her  awful  sway, 

And  sable  Horror  guards  the  massy  door.. 

Here,  Desolation  holds  her  dreary  court, 
What  satellites  declare  her  dismal  reign  ! 

Shrieking  their  dirge,  ill  omeu'd  birds  resort. 
To  flit  their  vigils,  in  the  hoary  fan'.-. 

Soon  a  new  Morn's  restoring  beams  dispel 
The  clouds  of  Anarchy  from  Britain's  skies; 

The  fierce  Usurper  seeks  his  native  hell, 
And  Nature  triumphs,  as  the  Tyrant  dies. 

With  storms  she  welcomes  his  expiring  groans, 

Whirlwinds,  responsive,  greet  his  labouring  breath; 

Earth  shudders,  as  her  caves  receive  his  bones, 
Loathing*  the  ulfeiing  of  so  dark  a  death. 


"o 


The  legal  Ruler ,f  now,  resumes  the  helm, 

He  guides  thro'  gentle  seas,  the  prow  of  state  ; 

Hope  cheers,  with  wonted  smiles,  the  peaceful  realm, 
And  heals  the  bleeding  wounds  of  wearied  Hate. 

The  gloomy  tenants,  Newstead  !  of  thy  cells, 
Howling,  resign  their  violated  nest; 

*  This  is  an  historical  fact ;  a  violent  tempest  occurred 
immediately  subsequent  to  the  death  or  interment  of  Crom- 
well, whici)  occasioned  many  disputes  between  his  Partizans 
and  the  Cavaliers,  both  interpreted  the  circumstance  into 
divine  interposition,  but  whether  as  approbation  or  condemna- 
tion, we  leave  to  the  Casuists  of  that  age  to  decide ;  I  have 
made  such  use  of  the  occurence  as  suited  the  subject  of  my 
poem, 

f   Charles  II. 


FUGITIVE  PIECES.  65 

Again,  the  Master  on  bis  tenure  dwells, 

Enjoy'd,  from  absence,  with  enraptur'd  zest. 

Vassals,  within  thy  hospitable  pale, 

Loudly  carousing  bless  their  Lord's  return  ; 

Culture,  again,  adorns  the  gladdening  vale, 
And  matrons,  once  lamenting,  cease  to  mourn. 

A  thousand  songs,  on  tuneful  echo,  float. 

Unwonted  foliage  manilcs  o'er  the  trees; 
And,  hark  !   the  horns  pioclaim  a  mellow  note, 

The  hunter's  cry  hangs  lengthening  on  the  breeze. 

Beneath  their  coursers'  hoofs  the  valleys  shake. 

What  fears  !   what  anxious  hopes  !   attend  the  chace  ! 

The  dying  stag  seeks  refuge  in  the  lake, 
Exulting  shouts  announce  the  finish'd  race. 

Ah  !  happy  days  I  too  happy  to  endure ! 

Such  simple  sports,   our  plain  forefathers  knew  ; 
No  splendid  vices  glitter'd  to  allure, 

Their  joys  were  many,  as  their  cares  were  few. 

From  these  descending,  Sons  to  Sires  succeed. 
Time  steals  along,  and  Death  uprears  his  dart  j 

Another  Chief  impels  the  foaming  steed, 
Another  Crowd  pursue  the  panting  hart. 

Newstead  !  what  saddening  change  of  scene  is  thine  ! 

Thy  yawning  arch  betokens  slow  decay  : 
The  last  and  youngest  of  a  noble  line. 

Now  holds  thy  mouldering  turrets  in  his  sway. 

Deserted  now,  he  scans  thy  grey  worn  towers  ; 

Thy  vaults,  where  dead  of  feudal  ages  sleep; 
Thy  cloisters,  pervious  to  the  wintry  showers ; 

These,  these  he  views,  and  views  them  but  to  weep. 

Yet  are  his  tears,  no  emblems  of  regret, 

Cherish'd  affection  only  bids  them  flow  ; 
Pride,  Hope,  and  Love,  forbid  him  to  forget. 

But  warm  his  bosom  with  empassion'd  glow. 

Yet,  he  prefers  thee,  to  the  gilded  domes, 

Or  gewgaw  grottos,  of  the  vainly  great ; 
Yet,  lingers  mid  thy  damp  and  mossy  tombs, 

Nor  breathes  a  murmur  'gainst  the  will  of  fate. 

r  2 


€6  FUGITIVE  PIECES. 

Haply  thy  sun,  emerging,  yet,  may  shine. 
Thee  to  irradiate  with  meridian  ray  ; 

Fortune  may  smile  upon  a  future  line. 

And  heaven  restore  an  ever  cloudless  day. 


CHILDISH  RECOLLECTIONS. 


I  cannot  but  remember  such  thinga  were. 

And  were  most  dear  to  me.  Macbeth. 


WHEN  slow  Disease  with  all  her  host  of  Pains, 

Chills  the  warm  tide,  which  flows  along  the  veing  ; 

When  Health  affrighted  spreads  lier  rosy  wing, 

And  flies  with  every  changing  gale  of  spring; 

Not  to  the  aching  frame  alone  confin'd. 

Unyielding  pangs  assail  the  drooping  mind : 

What  grisly  forms,  the  spectre  train  of  woe  ! 

Bid  shuddering  Nature  shrink  beneath  the  blow, 

With  Resignation  wage  relentless  strife, 

While  Hope  retires  appall'd,  and  clings  to  life. 

Yet  less  the  pang,  when,  through  the  tedious  hour, 

Remembrance  sheds  around  her  genial  power. 

Calls  back  the  vanish'd  days  to  rapture  given. 

When  Love  was  bliss,  and  Beauiy  form'd  our  heaven ; 

Or  dear  to  youth,  portrays  each  childish  scene. 

Those  fairy  bowers,  where  all  in  turn  have  been, 

As  when,  through  clouds  that  pour  the  summer  storm, 

The  orb  of  day  unveils  liis  distant  form. 

Gilds  with  faint  beams  the  crystal  dews  of  rain. 

And  dimly  twinkles  o'er  the  watery  plain  j 

Thus,  while  the  future  dark  and  cheerless  gleams, 

The  Sun  of  Memory,  glowing  through  my  dreams, 

Though  sunk  the  radiance  of  his  former  blaze, 

To  scenes  far  distant  points  his  paler  rays. 

Still  rules  my  senses  with  unbounded  sway,' 

The  past  confounding  with  the  present  day. 

Oft  does  my  heart  indulge  the  rising  thought. 
Which  still  recurs,  unlook'd  for,  and  unsought; 
]\Iy  soul  to  Fancy's  fond  suggestion  yields,. 
And  reams  romantic  o'er  her  airy  fields ; 


FUGITIVE  PIECES.  67 

Scenes  of  my  youth,  develop'd,  crowd  to  view, 

To  which  I  long  have  bade  a  last  adieu  ! 

Seats  of  delight,  inspiring  youthful  themes  j 

Friends  lost  to  me,   for  aye,  except  in  dreams; 

Some,  who  in  marble  prematurely  sleep, 

Whose  forms  I  now  remember,  but  to  weep  ; 

Some,   who  yet  urge  the  same  scholastic  course  : 

Of  early  science,  future  fame  the  source  : 

Who,  still  contending  in  the  studious  race, 

In  quick  rotation,  fill  the  senior  placo  !  40 

These,  with  a  thousand  visions,  now  unite; 

To  dazzle,  though  they  please,  my  aching  sight. 

Ida  !   blest  spot,  where  Science  holds  her  reign, 
How  joyous,  once,   I  join'd  thy  youthful  train ; 
Bright,  in  idea,  gleams  thy  lofty  spire. 
Again,   I  mingle  with  thy  playful  choir  ; 
Our  tricks  of  mischief,  every  childish  game, 
Unchang'd  by  time  or  distance,  seem  the  same  ; 
Through  winding  paths,  along  the  glade  I  trace. 
The  social  smile  of  ev'ry  welcome  face. 
My  wonted  haunts,  my  scenes  of  joy  or  woe. 
Each  early  boyish  friend,  or  youthful  foe, 
Our  feuds  dissolv'd,  but  not  my  friendship  past, 
I  bless  the  former,  and  forgive  the  last. 
Hours  of  my  youth,  when  nurtur'd  in  my  breast, 
To  Love  a  stranger.   Friendship  made  me  blest  j 
Friendship,  the  dear  peculiar  liond  of  youth. 
When  every  artless  bosom  throbs  with  truth  ; 

Untaught  by  worldly  wisdom  how  to  feign. 

And  check  each  impulse  with  prudential  rein  ;  60 

When,  all  we  feel,  our  honest  souls  disclose, 

In  love  to  friends,  in  open  hate  to  foes; 

No  varnish'd  t«les  the  lips  of  youth  repeat. 

No  dear  bought  knowledge  purchas'd  by  deceit ; 

Hypocrisy,   the  gift  of  lengthen'd  years, 

Matur'd  by  age,  the  garb  of  Prudence  wears; 

When,  now,  the  Boy  is  ripen'd  into  Man, 

His  careful  Sire  chalks  forth  some  wary  plan  ; 

Instructs  his  Son  from  Candour's  path  to  shrink, 

Sinoothly  to  speak,  and  cautiously  to  think  ; 

Still  to  assent,  and  never  to  deny, 

A  patron'*  praise  can  well  reward  the  lie ; 

And  who,  when  Fortune's  warnin.'r  voice  is  heard,. 

Would  lose  his  opening  prospects  for  a  word  ? 

Although,  against  that  word,  his  heart  rebel, 

Aad  Truth,  indignant,  all  his  bosom  swell. 

% 


68  FUGITIVE  PIECES. 

Away  with  themes  like  this,  not  mine  the  task, 
From  flattering  fiends  to  tear  the  hateful  mask  ; 
L  t  keener  harJs  delight  in  Satire's  silng, 
Wy  Fancy  soars  not  on  Detraction's  wing ;  80 

Once,  and  but  once,  she  aim'J  a  deadly  blow, 
To  hurl  Defiance  on  a  secret  Foe  ; 
But  when  that  Foe,  from  feeling  or  from  shame, 
The  cause  unknown,  yet  still  to  me  the  same,  ^ 
Warn'd  by  some  friendly  hint,  percbatice,  relir'd. 
With  this  submission,  all  her  rage  expir'd. 
From  dreaded  pangs  that  feeble  Foe  to  save, 
She  hush'd  her  young  resentmenf,  and  forgave  : 
Or,  if  my  Muse  a  IVdani's  portrait  drew, 
Poraposus'  virtues  are  but  known  to  few  ;      ^ 
I  never  fear'd  the  young  usurper's  nod. 
And  he  who  wields,  must,  sometiiries,  feel  the  rod. 
If  since,  ori  Granta's  failings,  known  to  all, 
Who  share  the  converse  of  a  college  hall, 
She  sometimes  tiifled  in  a  ligh'.er  strain,^ 
' Tis  past,  and  thus  ^he  will  not  sin  ag^iin. 
Soon  must  her  early  song  for  ever  cease. 
And,  all  may  rail,  when  I  shall  rest  in  peace. 

»■    Here,  first  remember'd  he  the  joyous  band, 

Who  hail'd  me  chief,  obedient  to  command  ;  100 

Who  join'd  with  me,  in  every  boyish  sport, 

Their  first  adviser,  and  their  iast  resort. 

Nor  shrunk  before  the  upstart  pedant's  frown. 

Or  all  the  sable  gloiies  cf  his  gown  ; 

Who,  thus  transplanted  from  his  father's  school, 

Unfit  to  govern,  ignorant  of  rule, 

Succeeded  him,  whom  all  units  to  praise, 

The  dear  precep  or  of  my  early  days  ; 

Probus,*  the  pride  of  science,   and  the  boast, 

To  Ida,  now,  alas  !   for  ever  lost. 

.'1.;  v.l)    ,  /t.  _ 

*  This  most  able  and  excellent  man  retired  from  his  situa- 
tion in  ilarch  1805,  after  having  resided  35  years  at  H.— 
the  last  20  as  Head  Master  ;  an  office  he  held  with  equal  ho- 
nour to  himself,  and  advantage  to  the  very  extensive  School 
over  which  he  presided ;  panegyric  would  here  be  superfluous, 
it  would  be  useless  to  enumerate  qualifications  which  were 
never  doubted  ;  a  considerable  contest  took  place  between  three 
rival  candidates  for  his  vacant  Chair,  of  this  I  can  only  say 

<'  Si  mea,  cum  vestris  valuissent  Vota,  Pelasgi ! 
*'  Nor  foret  amjiguus  tanti  ccrtaminis  Hseres." 


FUGITIVE  PIECES.  69 

With  him,  for  ypara,  we  search'd  the  classic  page, 

And  fear'd  the  Master,  though  we  lov'd  the  Sage; 

Retir'd  at  last,  his  small,  yet  peaceful  seat, 

From  learning's  labour  is  the  blest  retreat. 

Pomposus  fills  his  magisterial  chair  ; 

Pomposus  governs, —  but  my  Muse  forbear: 

Contempt,  in  silence,  be  the  pedant's  lot, 

His  name  and  precepts  be  alike  forgot ; 

No  more  his  mention  shall  my  verse  degrade, 

To  him  my  tribute  is  already  paid.  120 

High,  thro'  those  elms  with  hoary  branches  crown'd. 
Fair  Ida's  bower  adorns  the  landscape  round ; 
There  Science  from  her  favour'd  seat  surveys 
The  vale,  where  rural  Nature  claims  her  praise  ; 
To  her  awhile  resigns  her  youthful  train, 
Who  move  in  joy,  and  dance  along  the  plain. 
In  scatter'd  groups  each  favoured  haunt  pursue, 
Repeat  old  pastimes,  and  discover  new  ; 
Flush 'd  with  his  rays,  beneath  the  noon-tide  Sun, 
In  rival  bands,  between  tiie  wickets  run, 
Drive  o'er  the  sward  the  ball  with  active  force, 
Or  chase  with  nimble  feet  its  rapid  course. 
But  these  with  slower  steps  direct  their  way, 
Where  Brent's  cool  waves  in  limpid  currents  stray  ; 
While  yonder  few  search  out  some  green  retreat, 
And  arbours  shade  them  from  the  summer  heat : 
Others,  again,  a  pert,  and  lively  crew, 
Some  rough,  and  thoughtless  stranger  plac'd  iu  view, 
Wiih  frolick  quaint,  their  antic  jests  expose 
And  tease  the  grumbling  rustic  as  he  goes  ;  140 

Nor  rest  with  this,  but  many  a  passing  fray. 
Tradition  treasures  for  a  future  day  ; 
"  'Twas  here  the  galher'd  swains  for  vengeance  fought, 
"  And  here  we  earn'd  the  conquest  dearly  bought, 
*'  Here  have  we  fled  before  superior  might, 

"  And  here  renew'd  the  wild  tumultuous  fight." 

While  thus  our  souls  with  early  passions  swell. 

In  lingering  tones  resounds  the  distant  bell ; 

Th'  allotted  hour  of  daily  sport  is  o'er, 

And  Learning  beckons  from  her  temple's  door. 

No  splendid  tablets  grace  her  simple  hall, 

But  ruder  records  fill  the  dusky  wall  ; 

There,  deeply  carv'd,  behold  !   each  Tyro's  name 

Secures  its  owner's  academic  fame  ; 

Here,  mingling  view  the  names  of  Sire,  and  Son 

The  one  long  grav'd,  the  other  just  begun, 


70  FUGITIVE  PIECES. 

Tliese  shall  survive  alike  when  Son  and  Sire, 

Beneath  one  common  stroke  of  fate  expire, 

Perhaps,  tlieir  last  memorial  tliese  alone, 

Denied,  in  Death,  a  monumental  stone,  160 

Whilst  to  the  gale,  in  mournful  cadence  wave, 

The  sighing  weeds,  that  hide  tiieir  nameless  grave. 

And,  here,  my  name  and  many  an  early  friend's 

Along  the  wall  in  lengthened  line  extends, 

Though,  still,  our  deeds  amuse  the  youthful  race, 

Who  tread  our  steps,  and  fill  our  former  place, 

Who  young  obeyed  their  lords  in  silent  awe. 

Whose  nod  commanded,  and  whose  voice  was  law  : 

And  now,  in  turn,  possess  the  reins  of  power, 

To  rule  tiie  little  Tyrants  of  an  hour  ; 

Though  sometimes,  with  the  Tales  of  anlietU  day, 

They  pass  the  dreary  Winter's  eve  away ; 

"  And,  thus,  our  former  rulers  stemm'd  the  tide, 

"  And,  thus,  they  dealt  the  combat,  side  by  side; 

"  Just  in  this  place,    ihe  mouldering  walls  they  scaled, 

*'  Nor  bults,  nor  bars,  against  their  strength  availed  ; 

*'  Hare,  Probus  came,   the  rising  fray  to  queil, 

"  And,  here,  he  faultered  forth  his  last  farewell, 

"  And,  here,  one  night,  abroad  they  dared  to  roara, 

"  While  bold  Pomposus  bravely  staid  at  home."  180 

While  thus  iliey  speak,  the  hour  must  soon  arrive, 

When  names  of  these,   like  ours,  alone  survive; 

Yet  a  few  years,  one  general  wreck  will  whelm 

The  faint  remembrance  of  our  fairy  realm. 

Dear  honest  race,  though  now  we  meet  no  more, 
One  last,  long  look,  on  what  we  were  before  ; 
Our  first  kind  greetings,  and  our  last  adieu  ! 
Drew  tears  from  eyes  unus'd  to  weep  with  you  ; 
Through  splendid  circles.   Fashion's  gaudy  world, 
Where  Folly's  glaring  standard  waves  unfurl'd, 
I  plung'd  to  drown  in  noise  my  fond  regret. 
And  all  I  sought  or  hop'd,  was  to  forget : 
Vain  wish  !   if,  chance,  some  well  remember'd  face, 
Some  old  companion  of  my  early  race, 
Advanc'd  to  claim  his  friend  with   honest  joy. 
My  eyes,  my  heart,  proclaim'd  me  still  a  boy  ; 
The  glittering  scene,  the  fluttering  groups  around. 
Were  quite  forgotten,  when  my  friend  was  found  j 
The  sniiles  of  Beauty,  (for  nlan  !   I've  known 
What  'tis  to  bend  before  Love's  mighty  throne;)  200 

Tiie  smiles  of  Beauty,  though  those  smiles  were  dear. 
Could  hardly  charm  me,  when  that  friend  was  near; 


FUGITIVE  PIECES.  71 

My  thoughts  bewilder'd  in  the  fond  surprise, 
The  woods  of  Ida  danc'd  before  my  eyes  ; 
I  saw  the  sprightly  wand'rers  pour  along, 
I  saw,  and  joiii'd  again,  the  joyous  throng; 
Panting  again,  I  trac'd  her  lofty  grove, 
And  Friendship's  feelings  Iriumph'd  over  Love. 

Yet,  why  should  I  alone  ■with  such  delight, 
Retrace  the  circuit  of  my  former  flight? 
Is  there  no  cause  beyond  the  common  claim, 
Endear'd  to  all  in  childhood's  very  name  ? 
Ah  !   sure  some  stronger  impulse  vibrates  here, 
Which  whispers  friendship  will  be  doubly  dear 
To  one,  who  thus  for  kindred  hearts  must  roam. 
And  seek  abroad,  the  love  denied  at  home  : 
Those  hearts,  dear  Ida,  have  I  found  in  thee, 
A  home,  a  world,  a  paradise  to  me. 
Stern  Death,  forbade  my  orphan  youth  to  share. 
The  tender  guidance  of  a  Father's  care  ;  220 

Can  Rank,  orev'n  a  Guardian's  name  supply. 
The  Love,  which  glistens  in   a   Father's  eye  ? 

For  this,  can  Wealth,  or  Title's  sound  atone, 

Made,   by  a  Parent's  early  loss,   my  own  ? 

What  Brother  springs  a  Brother's  love  to  seek  ? 

What  Sisier's  gentle  kiss  has  prest  my  cheek? 

For  me,  how  dull  the  Vfscant  moments  rise. 

To  no  fond  bosom  link'd  by  kindred  lies; 

Oft,  in  the  progress  of  some  fleeting  dieara. 

Fraternal  soiiles,  collected  round    me  seem, 

While  SI  ill  the  visions  to  my  heart  are  prest, 

The  voice  of  Love  will  murmur  in  my  rest ; 

I  hear,   I  wake,  and  in  the  sound  rejoice, 

1  hear  again,  —  but  ah  !   no  Brother's  voice. 

A  Heriiiit,  midst  of  crowds,  I  fain  must  sti^ay 

Alone,   though  thousand  pilgrims  fill  ihe  wav  ; 

While  these  a  thousand  kindred  wreaths  entwine, 

I  cannot  call  one  single  blossom  mine  : 
What  then  rtmains?  in  solitude  to  groan, 

To  mix  in  friendship,  or  to  sigh  alone  ?  24G 

Thus,   must  J  cling  to  some  endearing  band, 

And  none  more  dear,  than  Ida's  social  band. 

Alonzo!   best  and  dearest  of  my  friends. 
Thy  name  ennobles  him,   who  thus  commends  ; 
From  this  fond  tribute,   thou  can'st  gain  no  praise. 
The  praise  is  his,  who  now  that  tribute  pays. 


72  FUGITIVE  PIECES. 

Oh  !  in  tlie  promise  of  tliy  early  youth, 

If  hope  anticipate  the  words  of  truth  ; 

Some  loftier  bard  shall  sing  thy  glorious  name. 

To  build  his  own  upon  thy  deathlets  fame. 

Friend  of  my  heart,  and  foremost  of  the  list 

Of  those,  with  whom  I  liv'd  supremely  blest ; 

Oft  have  we  drain'd  the  font  of  antient  lore, 

Though,  drinking  deeply,  thirsting  still  the  more. 

Yet,  when  confinement's  lin<j;ering  hour  vras  done. 

Our  sports,  our  studies,  and  our  souls  Were  one  ; 

Together  we  impell'd  the  flying  ball. 

Together  waited  in  our  tutor's  hall ; 

Together  join'd  in  cricket's  manly  toil. 

Or  shar'd  the  produce  of  the  river's  spoil?  260 

Or,  plunging  from  the  green,  declining  shore. 

Our  pliant  limbs  the  buoyant  waters  bore  ; 

In  every  element,  unchang'd,  the  same, 

All,  all,  tliat  brothers  should  be,  but  the  name. 

Nor  yet,  are  you  forgot,  my  jocund  Boy  ! 
Davus,  the  harbinger  of  childish  joy  ; 
For  ever  foremost  in  the  ranks  of  fun, 
The  laughing  herald  of  the  harmlesj  pun  ; 
Yet,  with  a  breast,  of  such  materials  made, 
Anxious  to  please,  of  pleasing  half  afraid  ; 
Candid  and  libera!,  with  a  heart  of  steel 
In  danger's  path,  though  not  untaught  to  feel. 
Still,  I  remember,  in  the  factious  strife, 
The  rustic's  musket  aim'd  against  my  life  ; 
High  pois'd  in  air,   the  massy  weapon  hung, 
A  cry  of  horror  burst  from  every  tongue  ; 
Whilst  I,  in  combat  with  another  foe,  ^ 
Fought  on,  unconscious  of  th'  impending  blow  ; 
Your  arm,  brave  Boy,  arrested  his  career, 
Forward  you  sprung,  insensible  to  fear;  28( 

Disarm'd  and  baifled,  by  your  conquering  hand. 

The  groveling  Savage  roU'd  upon  tlie  sand  ; 

An  act,  like  this,  can  simple  thanks  repay? 

Or  all  the  labours  of  a  grateful  lay  ? 

Oh  !  no  !  whene'er  my  breast  forgets  the  deed, 

That  instant,  Davus,  it  deserves  to  bleed. 

Ltcus  !  on  me,  thy  claims  are  justly  great, 
Thy  milder  virtues  could  my  Muse  relate. 
To  thee,  alone,  unrivall'd,  would  belong, 
The  feeble  efforts  of  my  lengthen'd  song. 


FUGITIVE  PIECES.  ^ 

Well  canst  thou  boast,  to  lead  in  Senates  fit, 

A  Spartan  firmness,  with  Athenian  wit; 

Tho'  yet,  in  embryo,  these  perfections  shine, 

X.YCHS !  thy  father's  fame,  will  soon  be  thine. 

Wliere  Learning  nurtures  the  superior  mind, 

What  may  we  hope,  from  genius  thus  refin'd  ! 

When  Time,  at  length,  matures  thy  growing  years, 

How  wilt  thou  tower,  above  thy  fellow  peers  ! 

Prudence  and  sense,  a  spirit  bold  and  free, 

With  honour's  soul,  united,  beam  in  thee.  300 

Shall  fair  Euryalus,  pass  by  unsung  ? 
From  antient  lineage,  not  unworthy,  sprung ; 
What,  though  one  sad  dissension  bade  us  part. 
That  name  is  yet  embalm'd  within  my  heart ; 
Yet,  at  the  mention,  does  that  heart  rebound. 
And  palpitate,  responsive  to  the  sound  : 
Envy  dissolv'd  our  ties,  and  not  our  will, 
We  once  were  friends,—  I'll  think,  we  are  so  still. 
A  form  unmatch'd,  in  Nature's  partial  mould, 
A  heart  untainted,  we,  in  thee,  behold  ; 
Yet,  not  the  Senate's  thunder  thou  shalt  wield. 
Nor  seek  for  glory,  in  the  tented  Tield  ; 
To  minds  of  ruder  texture,  thess  he  given, 
Thy  soul  shall  nearer  soar  its  native  heaven. 
Haply,  in  polish'd  courts,  might  be  thy  seat. 
But,  that  thy  tongue  could  never  forge  deceit  ; 
The  courtier's  supple  bow,  and  sneering  smile, 
The  flow  of  compliment,  the  slippery  wile, 
Would  make  that  breast,  with  indignation,  burn, 
And,  all  the  glittering  snares,  to  tempt  thee,  spurn.  320 

Domestic  happiness,  will  stamp  thy  fate;  ' 

Sacred  to  love,  unclouded  e'er  by  hate  ; 
The  world  admire  thee,  and  thy  friends  adore. 
Ambition's  Slave,  alone,  would  toil  for  more. 

Now  last,  but  nearest,   of  the  social  band, 
See,  honest,  open,  generous  Cleon,  stand  ; 
With  scarce  one  speck,  to  cloud  the  pleasing  scene, 
No  vice  degrades  that  purest  soul  serene. 
On  the  same  day,  our  studious  race  begun, 
On  the  same  day,  our  studious  race  was  run; 
Thus,  side  by  side,  we  pass'd  our  first  career. 
Thus,  side  by  side,  we  strove  for  many  a  year ; 
At  last,  concluded  our  scholastic  life, 
We  neither  conquer'd  in  the  classic  strife  ; 

G 


*^  FUGITIVE  PIECES. 

As  Speakers,*  each  supports  an  equal  name. 

And  crowds  allow  to  both  a  partial  fame  ; 

To  soothe  a  youthful  Rival's  early  pride, 

Though  Cleon's  candour  would  the  palm  divide ; 

Yet  Candour's  self  compels  me  now  to  own, 

Justice  awards  it  to  my  Friend  alone.  340 

Oh  !  Friends  regretted,  Scenes  for  ever  dear, 
Remembrance  hails  you,  with  her  wannest  tear ! 
Drooping,  she  bends  o'er  pensive  Fancy's  urn, 
To  trace  the  hours  which  never  can  return, 
Yet,  with  the  retrospection  loves  to  dwell. 
And  soothe  the  sorrows  of  her  last  farewell ! 
Yet,  greets  the  triumph,  of  my  boyish  mind;- 
As  infant  laurels  round  my  head  were  twin'd  ; 
When  Probus'  praise  repaid  my  lyric  song, 
Or  plac'd  me  higher  in  the  studious  throng  ; 
Or,  when  my  first  harangue  receiv'd  applause, 
His  sage  instruction  the  priraasval  cause. 
What  gratitude,  to  him,  my  soul  possest. 
While  hope  of  dawning  honours  fiU'd  my  breast. 
For  all  my  humble  fame,  to  him  alone, 
The  praise  is  due,  who  made  that  fame  my  own. 
Oh  !   could  I  soar  above  these  feeble  lays. 
These  young  effusions  of  my  early  days. 
To  him  my  Muse  her  noblest  strain  would  give, 
The  song  might  perish,  but  the  theme  must  live  ;  360 

Yet,  why  for  him  the  needless  verse  essay  ? 
His  honour'd  name  requires  no  vain  display  ; 
IBy  every  son  of  grateful  Ida  blest. 
It  finds  an  echo  in  each  youthful  breast ; 
A  fame  beyond  the  glories  of  the  proud, 
Or  all  the  plaudits  of  the  venal  crowd. 

Ida,  not  yet  exhausted  is  the  theme. 
Nor  clos'd  the  progress  of  my  youthful  dream  ; 
How  many  a  friend  deserves  the  grateful  strain  ? 
What  scenes  of  childhood  still  unsung  remain  ! 
Yet  let  me  hush  this  echo  of  the  past, 
This  parting  song,  the  dearest  and  the  last ; 
And  brood  in  secret  o'er  those  hours  of  joy. 
To  me  a  silent,  and  a  sweet  employ, 
While  future  hope  and  fear  alike  unknown, 
I  think  with  pleasure  on  the  past  alone  ; 

•  This  alludes  to  the  public  speeches,  delivered   at    the 
school  where  the  author  was  educated. 


FUGITIVE  PIECES.  15 

Yes,  to  the  past  alone,  my  heart  confine, 

And  chase  the  phantom  of  what  once  was  mine. 

Ida  !   still  o'er  thy  hills  in  joy  preside. 
And  proudly  steer  through  time's  eventful  tide;  380 

Still,  may  thy  blooming  sons  thy  name  revere, 
Smile  in  thy  bower,  but  quit  thee  with  a  tear ; 
That  tear,  perhaps,  the  fondest  which  will  flow, 
O'er  their  last  scene  of  happiness  below  : 
Tell  me,  ye  hoary  few,  who  glide  along, 
The  feeble  Veterans  of  some  former  throng  : 
Whose  friends,  like  Autumn  leaves  by  tempests  whirl'd, 
Are  swept  for  ever  from  this  busy  world  ; 
Revolve  the  fleeting  moments  of  your  youth, 
While  care  as  yet  withheld  her  venom'd  tooth ; 
Say,  if  Remembrance  days  like  these  endears, 
Beyond  the  rapture  of  succeeding  years? 
Say,  can  Ambition's  fever'd  dream  bestow 
So  sweet  a  balm,  to  soothe  your  hours  of  woe? 
Can  Treasures  hoarded  for  some  thankless  Son, 
Can  Royal  Smiles,  or  Wreaths  by  slaughter  won, 
Can  Stars,  or  Ermine,  Man's  maturer  Toys, 
(For  glittering  baubles  are  not  left  to  Boys,) 
Recall  one  scene,  so  much  belov'd,  to  view. 
As  those,  where  Youth  her  garland  twin'd  for  you  ?  400 

Ah,  no  !  amidst  the  gloomy  calm  of  age, 
You  turn  with  faulleriug  hand  life's  varied  page, 
Peruse  the  record,  of  your  days  on  earth. 
Unsullied  only,  where  it  marks  your  birth  ; 
Still,  ling'ring,  pause  above  each  chequer'd  leaf. 
And  blot  with  Tears  the  sable  lines  of  grief  j 
Where  Passion  o'er  the  theme  her  mantle  threw. 
Or  weeping  Virtue  sigh'd  a  faint  adieu ; 
But  bless  the  scroll  which  fairer  words  adorn, 
Trac'd  by  the  rosy  finger  of  the  Morn ; 
When  Friendship  bow'd  before  the  shrine  of  Truth, 
And  Love,*  without  his  pinion,  smil'd  on  Youth. 

*  "  L'Amilie  est  L'Amour  sans  Ailes,"  is  a  French  pro- 
verb. 


•6  FUGITIVE  PIECES. 

THE  DEATH  OF  CALxMAR  AND  ORLA, 


AN  IMITATION    OF 


MACPHERSON'S  OSSIAN.* 


DEAR  are  the  days  of  youth  !  Age  dwells  on  their  re- 
membrance through  the  mist  of  lime.  In  ihe  twilight  he  re- 
calls the  sunny  hours  of  morn.  He  lifts.. his  spear  with 
trembling  hand.  "  Not  thus  feebly  did  I  raise  the  steel  before 
my  fathers  !"  Past  is  the  race  of  heroes  !  but  their  fame  rises 
on  the  harp  ;  their  souls  ride  on  the  wings  of  the  wind  !  they 
hear  the  sound  through  the  sighs  of  the  storm  ;  and  rejoice  in 
their  hall  of  clouds  !  Such  is  Calmar.  T!ie  grey  stone  marks 
his  narrow  house.  He  looks  down  from  eddying  tempests  ; 
he  rolls  his  foriu  in  the  whirlwind,  and  hovers  on  the  blast  of 
the  mountain. 

In  Morven  dwelt  the  chief.  A  beam  of  war  to  Fingal. 
His  steps  in  the  field  were  marked  in  blood  ;  Lochlin's  sons 
had  fled  before  his  angry  spear  !  but  mild  was  the  eye  of 
Calmar  ;  soft  was  the  flow  of  his  yellow  locks  ;  they  streamed 
like  the  meteor  of  the  night.  No  maid  was  the  sigh  of  his 
soul  J  his  thouglils  were  given  to  friendship  !  to  dark-haired 
Orla;  destroyer  of  heroes  !  equal  were  their  swords  in  battle: 
but  fierce  was  the  pride  of  Orla  —  gentle  alone  to  Calmar. 
Together  they  dwelt  in  the  cave  of  Oithona. 

From  Lochlin,  Svvaran  bounded  o'er  the  blue  waves. 
Erin's  sons  fell  beneath  bis  might.  Fingal  roused  his  chiefs 
to  combat.  Their  ships  cover  the  ocean  !  their  hosts  throng 
on  the  green  hills.      They  come  to  the  aid  of  Erin. 

Night  rose  in  clouds.  Darkness  veils  the  armies;  but  the 
blazing  oaks  gleam  through  the  valley.  The  sons  of  Loch- 
lin slept :  their  dreams  were  of  blood.  They  lift  the  spear 
in  thought,  and  Fingal  flies.  Not  so  the  host  of  Morven. 
To  watch  was  the  post  of  Orla.  Calmar  stood  by  his  side. 
Their  spears  were  in  their  hands.  Fingal  called  his  chiefs; 
they  stood  around.      The  king  was  in  the  midst.     Grey  were 

*  It  may  be  necessary  to  observe  that  the  story,  though  con- 
siderably varied  in  the  Catastrophe,  is  taken  from  "  Nisus 
and  Euryalus,"  of  which  Episode  a  translation  is  already, 
given  in  the  present  volume. 


FUGITIVE  PIECES.  77 

his  locks,  but  strong  was  the  arm  of  the  king.  Age  withered 
not  hij  powers.  "  Sons  of  Morven"  said  the  hero,  "  to- 
morrow we  meet  the  foe  ;  but  where  is  Cuthullin,  the  shield 
of  Erin  ?  He  rests  in  the  halls  of  Tura;  he  knows  not  of 
our  coming.  Who  will  speed  through  Lochlin  to  the  hero  ? 
and  call  the  chief  to  arms.  The  path  is  by  the  swords  of 
foes,  but  many  are  my  heroes.  They  are  thunderbolts  of 
war  !      Speak  ye  chiefs,'  Who  will  arise?" 

"  Son  of  Trenmor  !  mine  be  the  deed,"  said  dark-haired 
Orla,  "  and  mine  alone.  What  is  death  to  me  ?  I  love  the 
sleep  of  the  mighty,  but  little  is  the  danger.  The  sons  of 
Lochlin  dream.  I  will  seek  car-borne  Cuthullin.  If  I 
fjll,  raise  the  song  of  bards ;  and  lay  me  by  the  stream  of 
Lubar." — "  And  shall  thou  fall  alone?"  said  fair-haired 
Calmar.  "  Wilt  thou  leave  thy  friend  afar?  Chief  of  Oithona  ! 
not  feeble  is  my  arm  in  6ght.  Could  I  see  thee  die,  and  not 
lift  the  spear  ?  No,  Orla !  ours  has  been  the  chace  of  the 
roebuck  and  the  feast  of  shells  ;  ours  be  the  path  of  danger; 
ours  has  been  the  cave  of  Oithona;  ours  be  the  narrow  dwell- 
ing on  the  banks  of  Lubar."  "Calmar!"  said  the  chief  of 
Oithona,  "  Why  should  thy  yellow  locks  be  darkened  in  the 
dust  of  Etin?  Let  me  fall  alone.  My  father  dwells  in  his 
hall  of  air :  he  will  rejoice  in  his  boy ;  but  the  blue-eyed 
Mora  spreads  the  feast  for  her  son  in  Morven,  She  listens  to 
the  steps  of  the  hunter  on  the  heath,  and  thinks  it  is  the  tread 
of  Calmar,  Let  her  not  say,  *  Calmar  has  fallen  by  the  steel 
of  Lochlin!  he  died  with  gloomy  Orla,  the  chief  of  the  dark 
brow.'  Why  should  tears  dim  the  azure  eye  of  Mora  ?  Why 
should  her  voice  curse  Orla,  the  destroyer  of  Calmar?  Live 
Calmar — live  to  raise  ray  stone  of  moss!  live  to  revenge  me  ia 
the  blood  of  Lochlin.  Join  the  song  of  bards  above  my  grave. 
Sweet  will  be  the  song  of  death  to  Orla,  from  the  voice  of 
Calmar.  My  ghost  shall  smile  on  the  notes  of  praisCi"— 
"  Orla!"  said  the  son  of  Mora,  "  could  I  raise  the  song  of 
death  to  my  friend  ?  Could  I  give  his  fame  to  the  winds  ? 
No,  my  heart  would  speak  in  sighs  ;  faint  and  broken  are  the 
sounds  of  sorrow.  Orla  :  our  souls  shall  hear  the  son^  to- 
gether. One  cloud  shall  be  ours  on  high  ;  the  bards  will 
mingle  the  names  of  Orla  and  Calmar." 

They  quit  the  circle  of  the  chiefs.  Their  steps  arc  to  the 
Host  of  Lochlin,  The  dying  blnze  of  oak  dim-twinkles 
through  the  night.  The  northern  star  points  the  path  to  Tura. 
Swaran,  the  king,  rests  on  his  lonely  hill.  Here  the  troops 
are  mixed  :  they  frown  in  sleep.  Their  shields  beneath  their 
heads.  Their  swords  gleam,  at  distance,  in  heaps.  The  fires 
are  faint;  their  embers  fail  in  smoke.     All  is  hushed;  but 

u2 


78  FUGITIVE  PIECES. 

the  gale  sighs  "on   the  rocks  above.     Lightly  wheel   the  he- 
roes  through   the    slumbering   band.      Half   the  journey  is 
past,  when   Mathon,  resting   on  his  shield,  meets  the  eye  of 
Orla.      It    rolls  in  flame,  and  glistens  through  the    shade: 
his  spear  is  raised  on  high.     "  Why  dost  thou  bend  thy  brow, 
chief  of  Oithona?"  said  fair-haired  Calmar,  "  we  are  in  the 
midst  of  foes.      Is  this  a  time  for  delay?"  "  It  is  a  time  for 
vengeance,"  said   Orla   of  the   gloomy  brow.     •'  Mathon  of 
Lochlin  sleeps;  seest  thou  his  spear?    Its  point  is  dim  with 
the  gore  of  my  father.      The  blood  of  Mathon  shall  reek  on 
mine;  but  shall  I  slay  him  sleeping,  Son  of  Mora?  No;  he 
shall  feel  his  wound  ;  my  fame  shall  not  soar  on  the  blood  of 
slumber:   rise,   Mathon,  rise!   The  son  of  Connal  calls,  thy 
life  is  his;   rise  to  combat."    Mathon  starts  from  sleep,  but 
did   he  rise   alone?   No:   the  gathering  chiefs  bound  on  the 
plain.     "  Fly,   Calmar,  fly,"  said  dark-hair'd    Orla,  "  Ma- 
thon is  mine;  I  shall  die  in  joy,  but  Lochlin  crowds  around; 
fly  through  the  shade   of  night."     Orla  turnc,  the   helm  of 
Mathon  is  cleft ;  his  shield  falls  from  his  arm  :  he  shudders  in 
his  blood.    He  rolls  by  the  side  of  the  biasing  oak.     Strumon 
sees  him  fall :   his  wrath  rises  ;  his   weapon   glitters  on   the 
head  of  Orla  ;  but  a  spear  pierced  his  eye.     His  brain  gushes 
through  the  wound,  and  foams  on  the  spear  of  Calmar.     As 
roll  the  waves  of  Ocean,  on  two  mighty  barks  of  the  North, 
so  pour  the  men  of  Lochlin  on  the  chiefs.      As  breaking  the 
surge  in  foam,  proudly  steer   the  barks  of  the  North,  so  rise 
the  Chiefs  of  Morven,  on  the  scattered  crests  of  Lochlin.   The 
din  of  arms  came  to  the  ear  of  Fingal.    He  strikes  his  shield: 
his  sons  throng  around;  the  people  pour  along   the  heath. 
Kyno,  bounds  in  joy.      Ossian,  stalks  in  his  arms.      Oscar, 
shakes  the  spear.      The  eagle  wing   of  Fillan  floats  on  the 
wind.     Dreadful  is  the  clang  of  death  !   many  are  the  widows 
of  Lochlin.      Morven  prevails  in  its  strength. 

Morn  glimmers  on  the  hills :  no  living  foe  is  seen ;  but 
the  sleepers  are  many  ;  grim  they  lie  on  Erin.  The  breeze  of 
ocean  lifts  their  locks  ;  yet  they  do  not  awake.  The  hawks 
scream  above  their  prey. 

Whose  yellow  locks  wave  o'er  the  breast  of  a  chief?  bright 
as  the  gold  of  the  stranger,  they  mingle  with  the  dark  hair  of 
his  friend.  "  'Tis  Calmar,  he  lies  on  the  bosom  of  Orla.— 
Theirs  is  one  stream  of  blood.  Fierce  is  the  look  of  the 
gloomy  Orla.  He  breathes  not ;  but  his  eye  is  still  a  flame. 
It  glares  in  death  unclosed.  His  hand  is  grasped  in  Calmar's  ; 
but  Calmar  lives  !  he  lives,  though  low.  "  llise,"  said  the 
king,  "  rise,  Son  of  Mora;  'Tis  mine  to  heal  the  wounds 
of  heroes.  Calmar  may  yet  bound  on  the  mountains  of 
Horven.'' 


FUGITIVE  PIECES.  79 

"  Never  more  shall  Calmar  chase  the  deer  of  Morven  with 
Orla,"  said  the  hero,  •'  what  were  the  ciiace  to  me  alone  ?  Who 
would  share  the  spoils  of  battle  wilh  Caluiar  ?  Orla  is  at  rest ! 
rough  was  thy  soul,  Orla  !  yet  soft  to  me  as  the  dew  of  morn. 
It  glared  on  others,  in  ligl)tning  :  to  me  a  silver  beam  of  night. 
Bear  my  sword  to  blue-eyed  Mora  ;  let  it  hang  in  my  empty 
hall.  It  is  not  pure  from  blood  ;  but  it  could  not  save  Orla. 
Lay  me  with  my  friend  :   raise  the  song  when  I  am  dark." 

They  are  laid  by  the  stream  of  Lubar.  Four  grey  stones 
mark  tbe  dwelling  of  Orla  and  Calmar. 

When  Swaran  was  bound,  our  sails  rose  on  tbe  blue  waves. 
The  winds  gave  our  barks  to  Morven.  The  bards  raised 
the  song. 

«  What  form  rises  on  the  roar  of  cloiids,  whose  dark  ghost 
gleams  on  the  red  stream  of  tempests?  his  voice  rolls  on  the 
thunder;  'tis  Orla.  The  brovm  chief  of  Oiihona,  He  was 
unmatched  in  war.  Peace  to  thy  soul,  Orla  !  thy  fame  will 
not  perish.  Nor  thine,  Calmar  !  Lovtly  wast  thou,  Son  of 
blue-eyed  Mora;  but  not  liarmless  was  thy  sword.  It  hangs 
in  thy  cave.  The  ghosts  of  LoehJin  shritk  around  its  steel. 
Hear  thy  praise,  Calmar  !  It  dwells  on  the  voice  of  the  mighty. 
Thy  name  shakes  on  the  echoes  of  Morven.  Then  raise  tiiy 
fair  locks,  son  of  Mora.  Spread  them  on  the  arch  of  the 
rainbow ;  and  smile  through  the  tears  of  tbe  storm. 


I  fear,  Laing's  late  Edition  has  completely  oTerthrown  every 
hope  that  Macpherson's  Ossian,  might  prove  the  Translation 
of  a  series  of  Poems  complete  in  themselves  ;  but,  while  the 
imposture:  is  discovered,  the  merit  of  the  %vork  remains  undis- 
puted, though  not  without  faults,  particularly  in  some  parts, 

turgid  and  bombastic  diction Tbe  present  humble  imitation, 

will  be  pardoned  by  the  admirers  of  tbe  original,  as  an  at- 
tempt, however  inferior,  which  evinces  an  attachment  to  their 
favourite  Author. 


>y^^n.^<N^<Vi^^^^l»^'*'»'** 


TO  E.  N.  L.,  Esa. 


Nil  ego  contulcriro  jucundo  sanus  amico.— Hob.  E. 


DEAR  L— — ,  in  this  «equester'd  scene,. 
While  all  around  in  slumber  lie,. 


fro  FUGITIVE  PIECES. 

Tlie  joyous  days  which  ours  have  been. 

Come  rolling  fresh  on  fancy's  eye  j 
Thus,  if  amidst  the  gathering  storm. 
While  clouds  the  darken'd  noon  deform, 
Yon  heaven  assumes  a  varied  glow, 
I  hail  the  sky's  celestial  bow; 
Which  spreads  the  sign  of  future  peace. 
And  bids  the  war  of  tempests  cease. 
Ah  !  though  the  present  brings  but  pain, 
I  think  those  days  may  come  again  ; 
Or  if,  in  melancholy  mood, 
Some  lurking  envious  fear  intrude  ; 
To  check  my  bosom's  fondest  thought,  ^ 

And  interrupt  the  golden  dream  ; 
I  crush  the  fiend  with  malice  fraught, 

And  still  indulge  my  wonted  theme  ; 
Although  we  ne'er  again  can  trace 

In  Granta's  vale,  the  pedant's  lore, 
Nor  through  the  groves  of  Ida  chase 

Our  raptur'd  visions  as  before  ; 
Though  Youth  has  flown  on  rosy  pinion, 
And   Manhood  claims  his  stern  dominion, 
Age  will  not  every  hope  destroy, 
But  yield  some  hours  of  sober  joy. 

Yes,  I  will  hope  that  Time's  broad  wing, 
Will  shed  around  some  dews  of  spring  ; 
But  if  his  scythe  must  sweep  the  flowers. 
Which  bloom  among  the  fairy  bowers, 
Where  smiling  Youth  delights  to  dwel!, 
And  hearts  with  early  rapture  swell  j 
If  frowning  Age  with  cold  control. 
Confines  the  current  of  the  soul. 
Congeals  the  tear  of  Pity's  eye. 
Or  checks  the  sympathetic  sigh. 
Or  hears  unmoved  Misfortune's  groan, 
And  bids  me  feel  for  self  alone  ; 
Oh  !   may  my  bosoin  never  learn, 

To  soothe  its  wonted  heedless  flow, 
Siiil,  still,  despise  the  censor  stern, 

But  ne'er  forget  another's  woe  ; 
Yes,  as  you  knew  me  in  the  days, 
O'er  which  Remembrance  yet  dulaysy 
Still  may  I  rove  untutor'd,  wild, 
And  ev'n  ia  age,  at  heart  a  child. 

Though,  now,  on  airy  visions  borne. 
To  you  my  soul  is  slill  the  same^ 


FUGITIVE  PIECES.  8l 

Oft  has  it  been  my  fate  to  mourn, 

And  all  my  forraer  joys  are  tame  ; 
But,  hence !  ye  hours  of  sable  hue, 

Your  frowns  are  gone,  my  sorrow's  o'er, 
By  every  bliss  my  childhood  knew, 

I'll  think  upon  your  shade  no  more ;  .i 

Thus  when  the  whirlwind's  rage  is  past. 

And  caves  their  sullen  roar  enclose; 
We  heed  no  more  the  wintry  blast. 

When  luU'd  by  zephyr  to  repose. 

Full  often  has  my  infant  Muse, 

Attun'd  to  Love,  her  languid  lyre  ; 
But,  now,  without  a  iheme  to  chuse, 

The  strains  in  stolen  sighs  expire; 
My  youthful  nymphs,  alas  !   are  flown, 

E is  a  wife,  and   C a  mother. 

And  Carolina  sighs  alone. 

And  Mary  's  given  to  another  ; 
And  Cora's  eye,  which  roU'd  on  me. 

Can  now  no  more  my  love  recall, 
In  truth,  dear  L ,  'twas  time  to  flee, 

For  Cora's  eye  will  shine  on  all. 
And  though  the  Sun  with  genial  rays, 
His  beams  alike  to  all  displays, 
And  every  lady's  eye's  a  sun, 
These  last  should  be  confin'd  to  one  ; 
The  soul's  meridian  don't  become  her. 
Whose  Sun  displays  a  general  summer. 
Thus  faint  is  every  former  flame, 
And  Passion's  self  is   now  a  name; 
As  when  the  ebbing  flames  are  low. 

The  aid  which  once  improv'd  their  light. 
And  bade  them  burn  vviih  fiercer  glow, 

Now  quenches  all  their  sparks  in  night  ; 
Thus  has  it   been  with    passion's  fires, 

As  many  a  boy  and  girl  remembers. 
While  all  the  force  of  love  expires, 

Extinguish'd  with  the  dying  embers. 

But,  now,  dear  L— — ,  'tis  midnight's  noon. 
And  clouds  obscure  the  watery  moon, 
Whose  beauties  I  shall  not  rehearse, 
Describ'd  in  every  stripling's  verse; 
For  wl)y  should  1  the  path  go  o'er. 
Which  every  bard  has  trod  before  ? 


82  FUGITIVE  PIECES. 

Yet,  er«  yon  silver  lamp  of  night, 

Has  thrice  perform'd  her  slated  rouud, 
Has  thrice  retrac'd  her  path  of  light, 

And  chas'd  away  the  gloom  profound, 
I  trust,  that  we,  my  gentle   Friend, 
Shall  see  her  rolling  orbit  wend, 
Above  the  dear  lov'd  peaceful  seat, 
Which  once  contain'd  our  youth's  retreat, 
And,  then,  with  those  our  childhood  knew. 
We'll  mingle  in  the  festive  crew  ; 
While  many  a  tale  of  former  day, 
Shall  wing  the  laughing  hours  away, 
And  all  the  flow  of  soul  shall  pour. 
The  sacred  intellectual  shower  ; 
Nor  cease  till  Luna's  waning  horn. 
Scarce  glimmers  through  the  mist  of  Morn. 


TO 


OH  !   had  my  fate  been  join'd  with  thine. 

As  once  (his  pledge  appear'd  a  token  ; 
These  follies  had  not  then  been  mine, 

For  then  my  peace  had  not  been  broken. 
2. 
To  thee,  these  early  faults  I  owe, 

To  thee,  the  wise  and  old  reproving  ; 
They  know  my  sins,  but  do  not  know, 

'Twas  thine  to  break  the  bonds  of  loving. 
3. 
For,  once,  my  soul  like  thine  was  pure, 

And  all  its  rising  fires  could  smother  j 
But,    now,  thy  vows  no  more  endure, 

Bestow'd  by  thee  upon  another. 
4. 
Perhaps,  his  peace  I  could  destroy, 

And  spoil  the  blisses  that  await  him  ; 
Yet,  let  my  rival  smile  in  joy. 

For  tby  dear  sake,   I  cannot  hate  him. 
5. 
Ab  !  since  thy  angel  form  is  gone, 

My  heart  no  more  can  rest  with  any  ; 
But  what  it  sought  in   thee  alone. 

Attempts,  alas !  to  find  ia  many. 


FUGITIVE  PIECES.  83 

6. 
Then,  fare  ihea  wel!,  deceitful  Maid, 

'Twero  vain   and  fruitless  to  regret  thee; 
Nor  Hope,  nor  Memory  yield  their  aid, 
But  pride  may  teach  me  to  forget  thet. 
7. 
Yet  all  this  giddy  waste  of  years, 

This  tiresome  round  of  palling  pleasures  ; 
These  varied  loves,  these  matron'g  Fears, 

These  thoughtless  strains  to  Passion's  measures. 
8. 
If  thou  wert  mine,  had  all  been  hush'd. 
This  cheek,  now  pale  from  early  riot ; 
With  Passion's  hectic  ne'er  had  flush'd. 
But  bloom'd  in  calm  domestic  quiet. 
9. 
Yes,  once  the  rural  scene  was  sweet, 

For  Nature  seem'd  to  smile  before  thee  ; 
And  once  my  Breast  abhorr'd  deceit. 
For  then  it  beat  but  to  adore  thee, 
10. 
But  now  I  seek  for  other  joys. 

To  think  would  drive  my  soul  to  madness; 
In  thougtless  throngs,  and  empty  noi»e, 
I  conquer  half  my   Bosom's  sadness. 
1]. 
Yet,  even  in  these,  a  thought  will  steal, 

In  spite  of  every  vain  endeavour; 
And  fiends  might  pity  what  I  feel, 
To  know,  that  thou  art  lost  for  ever. 


END    or    HOURS  OF  IDLENESS, 


iBixQlisi^  23ai-trs  Ic^ctitcJ  Mtbitijaers* 


PREFACE^ 


ALL  my  friends,  learned  and  unlearned,  have  urged  me 
not  to  publish  this  Satire  with  my  name.  If  I  were  to  be 
"  turn'd  from  the  career  of  my  humour  by  quibbles  quick, 
and  paper  bullets  of  the  brain,"  I  should  have  complied  with 
their  counsel.  But  I  am  not  to  bo  terrified  by  abuse,  or 
bullied  by  Reviewers,  with  or  without  arms.  I  can  safely 
say,  that  I  have  attacked  none  perKonally  who  did  not  com- 
mence on  the  offensive.  An  Author's  works  are  public  pro- 
perty; he  who  purchases  may  judge,  and  publish  his  opinion 
if  he  pleases  ;  and  the  Authors  I  have  endeavoured  to  com- 
memorate may  do  by  me  as  I  have  done  by  them :  I  dare  say 
they  will  succeed  better  in  condemning  my  seribblings,  than 
in  mending  their  own.  But  my  object  is  not  to  prove  that 
I  can  write  well,  but,  if  posf-ihle,  to  make  others  write  better. 

As  the  poem  has  met  with  far  more  success  than  I  ex- 
pected, I  have  endeavoured  in  this  Edition  to  make  some 
additions  and  alterations  to  render  it  more  worthy  of  public 
perusal. 

In  the  First  Edition  of  this  Satire,  published  anonymously, 
fourteen  lines  on  the  subject  of  Bowles's  Pope, were  written 
and  inserted  at  the  request  of  an  ingenious  friend  of  mine, 
who  has  now  in  the  press  a  volume  of  Poetry.  In  the  pre- 
sent Edition  they  are  erased,  and  some  of  my  own  substituted 
in  their  stead;  my  only  reason  for  this  being  that  which  I 
conceive  would  operate  with  any  other  person  in  the  same 
manner ;  a  determination  not  to  publish  with  my  name  any 
production  which  wa«  not  entirely  and  exclusively  my  own 
composition. 

*  This  Preface  was  written  for  the  Second  Edition,  and 
printed  with  it.  The  Noble  Author  had  left  this  country 
previous  to  the  publication  of  that  EdilioB,  and  is  not  yet 
returned. 


ENGIilSH    BARDS, 


AND 


A  SATIRE. 


I  had  rather  be  a  kitten,  and  cry,  mew  ! 

Than  one  of  these  samo  metre  ballad-mongers.— Shakspeake. 

Such  shameless  Bards  we  have ;   and  yet  'tis  true. 
There  are  as  mad,  abandon'd  Critics  too.— Popb. 


STILL  must  I  bear  ?  —  shall  hoarse  Fitzgerald*  bawl 
His  creaking  couplets  in  a  tavern   hall, 
And  I  not  sing,  lost,  haply,  Scotch  Reviews 
Should  dub   rae  scribbler,  and  denounce  my  Muse? 
Prepare  for  rhyme —  I'll  publish   right  or  wrong  — 
Fools  are  my  theme,  let  Satire  be  my  song. 

Oh  !   Nature's  noblest  gift —  my  grey  goose-quill! 
Slave  of  my  thoughts,  obedient  to  my  will, 
Torn   from  thy  parent  bird  to  form  a  pen, 
That  mighty  instrument  of  little  men  !  10 

*    IMITATION. 

♦'  Semper  ego  auditor  lantum  ?  nunquamne  reponara 
"  Vexatus  toties  rauci  Theseide  Codri  ? 

Juvenal,  Satire  I. 
Mr.  FiTZGEiiALD,  facetiously  termed  by  Cobbett  ihe  *'  Small 
Beer  Poet,"  inflicts  his  annual  tiibute  of  verse  on  the  "  Lite- 
rary Fund;"  not  content  with  writing,  he  spouts  in  person, 
after  the  company  have  imbibed  a  reasonable  quantity  of  bad 
port,  to  enable  them  to  sustain  the  operation. 

H 


86  ENGLISH   BARDS, 

Tiic  pen  !   foredoomed  to  aid  the  mental  throes 

Of  brains  that  labour,  big  with  Verse  or  Prose, 

Though  nymphs  forsake,  and   Critics  may  deride 

The  Lover's  solace  and  the  Author's  pride : 

%Vhat  Wits  !   what  Poets  dost  thou  daily  raise ! 

How  frequent  is  thy  use,  how  small  thy  praise! 

Condemned  at  length  to   be  forgotten  quite, 

With  all  the  pages  which  'twas  thine  to  write. 

But  thou,  at  least,  mine  own  especial  pen  ! 

Once  laid  aside  but  now  assumed  again,  20 

Our  task  complete,  like  Hamex's,*  shalt  be  free; 

Tho'  spurn'd  by  others  yet  beloved  by  me  — 

Then  let  us  «oar  to-day  !  no  common  theme, 

No  Eastern  vision,  no  distempered  dream 

Inspires  —  our  path,  though  full  of  thorns,   is  plain  ; 

Smooth  be  the  verse,  and  easy  be  the  strain. 

AVhen  Vice  triumphant,  holds  her  sov'reign  sway, 
And  men,  through  life  her  willing  slaves,  obey; 
"When   Folly,  frequent  harbinger  of  crime. 
Unfolds  her   motley  store  lo  suit  the  time  ;  30 

AVheu  Knaves  and  Fools  combined,  o'er  all  prevail, 
When  Jusuce  halts,  and  Right  begins  to  fail. 
E'en  then,  the  boldest  start  from  public  sneers. 
Afraid  of  Shame,  unknown  to  other  fears, 
More  darkly  sin,  by  Satire  kept  in  awe. 
And  shrink  from   Ridicule,  though  not  from  Law. 

Such  is  the  force  of  Wit !  but  not  belong 
To  me  the  arrows  of  Satiric  Song  ; 
The  royal  vices  of  our  age  demand 

A  keener  Weapon,  and  a  mightier  hand  40 

Still  tl;ere  are  follies  e'en  for  me  to  chase, 
And  jicld  at  least   amusement  in  the  race  ; 
Laugh  when  I  laugb,  I  seek  no  other  fame. 
The  cry  is  up,  and  Scribblers  are  my  game  :  0 
Speed  Pegasus  !  —  ye  strains  of  great  and  small. 
Ode!    Epic!   Elegy,  have  at  you  all !  _ 
I,  too,  can  scrawl,  and  once  upon  a  time 
1  poured  along  the  town  a  flood  of  rhyme, 
A  schoolboy  freak,  unworthy  praise  or  blame  ; 
I  printed  —  older  children  do  the  same.  50 

*  CiD  Hamet  Benengeli  promises  repose  to  his  pen  in  the 
last  chapter  of  Don  Quixote.  Oh !  that  our  voluminous 
gentry  would  follow  the  example  of  Cid  Hamit  BfiNKyoELi! 


AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  8T 

'Tis  pleasant,  sure,  to  see  one's  name  in  print ; 

A  Book 's  a  Book,  although  there  's  nothing  in't. 

Not  that  a  Title's  sounding  charm  can  save 

Or  scrawl  or  scribbler  from  an  equal  grave  ; 

This  Lajibe  must  own,  since  his  Patrician  name 

Failed  to  preserve  the  spurious  Farce  from  shame.* 

No  matter,   George  continues  still  to  write,f 

Tho'  now  the  name  is  veiled  from  public  sight. 

Moved   by  the  great  example  I  pursue 

The  selfsame  road,  but  make  my  own  review  —  60 

Not  s«ek  great  Jeffrev's,  yet,  like  him,  will  be 

Self-constituted  Judge  of  Poesy. 

A  man  must  serve  his  time  to  every  trade, 
Save  Censure  —  Critics  all  are  ready  made. 
Take  hackneyed  jokes  from  Miller,  got  by  rote, 
With  just  enough  of  learning  to  misqu.cte ; 
A  mind  well-skilled  to  find   or  forge  a  fault, 
A  turn  for  punning,   call  it  Attic  salt; 
To  Jefi-rey  go,  be  silent  and  discreet, 

His  pay  is  Just  ten  sterling  pounds  per  sheet ;  70 

Fear  not  to  lie,  'twill  seem  a  lucky  hit . 
Shrink  not  from  blasphemy,  'twill  pass  for  wit ; 
Care  not  for  feeling  —  pass  your  proper  jest. 
And  stand  a  Critic  hated,  yet  caressed. 

And  shall  we  own  such  judgment  ?  no  —  as  soon 
Seek   roses  in  December,  ice  in  Jane  ; 
Hope  constancy  in  wind,  or  corn  in  ch»fiF ; 
Believe  a  woman  or  an  epitaph, 
Or  any  other  thing  that 's  false,  before 

You  trust  in  Critics  who   themselves  are  Bori  ;  80 

Or  yield  one   single  thought  to  be  misled 
By  Jeffrey's  heart,  or  Lambe's  Boeotian  bead.:j: 

To  these  yo^g  tyrants,  II  by  themselves  misplac'd. 
Combined  usurpers  on  the  throne  of  Taste ; 

'-*■ 
*  This  ingenious  youth  is  mentioned  more  particularly,  with 

his  production,  in  another  place. 

j-  In  the  Edinburgh  Review. 

\  Messrs,  Jeffrey  and  Lambe  are  the  Alpha  and  Omega, 
the  first  and  last,  of  the  Edinburgh  Review ;  the  others  are 
mentioned  hereafter. 

IJ  "  Stulta  est  Clemetitia,  cum  tot  ubique 

•'  '         occurras  periturse  parcere  charta;. 

Juvenal,  Satire  I; 


88  ENGLISH    BARDS, 

To  these,  when  Authors  bend  in  hurobleawe. 

And  hail  their  voice  as  Truth,  their  word  as  Law  ; 

While  these  are  Censors,  'twould  be  sin  to  spare  ; 

While  such  are  Critics,  why  should  I  forbear  ? 

But  yet  so  near  all  modern  w^prthies  run, 

'Tis  doubtful  whom  to  seek^or  whom  to  shun  ;  90 

Nor  know  wc  when  to  spare,  or  where  to  strike, 

Our  Bards  and  Censors  are  so  much  alike. 

*  Then  should  you  ask  me,  why  I  venture  o'er 
The  path  which  Pope  and  Gifford  trod  before  : 
If  not  yet  sickened,  you  can  still  proceed  ; 
Go  on  :   my  rhyme  will  tell  you  as  you  read. 

Time  was,  ere  yet  in  these  degenerate  days 
Ignoble  themes  obtained  mistaken  praise. 
When  Sense  and  Wit  with  Poesy  allied. 
No  fabled  Graces  flourished  side  by  side,  100 

From  the  same  fount  their  inspiration  drew, 
And,  rear'd   by  Taste,  bloomed  fairer  as  they  grew. 
Then  in  this  happy  Isle  a  Pope's  pure  strain 
Sought  the  wrapt  soul  to  charm,  nor  sought  in  vain  ; 
A  polished  nation's  praise  aspired  to  claim. 
And  rais'd  the  People's  as  the  Poet's  fame. 
Like  him  great  Dryden  pour'd  the  tide  of  song. 
In  stream  less  smooth,  indeed,  yet  doubly  strong. 
Then  Cokgreve's  scenes  could  cheer,  or  Otway's  melt ; 
For  Nature  tl.en  an  English  audience  felt —  HO 

But  why  these  names,    or  greater  still,  retrace. 
When  all  to  feebler  bards  resign  their  place  ? 
Yet  to  such  times  our  lingering  looks  are  cast. 
When  Taste  and  Reason  with  those  times  are  past. 
Now  look  around,  and  turn  each  trifling  page, 
Survey  the  precious  works  that  please  the  age  ; 
This  truth  at  last  let  Satire's  self  allow, 
No  dearth  of  Bards  can  be  complained  of  T\am  : 
The  loaded  Press  beneath  their  labour  groans, 
And  Printers'  devil's  shake  iheir  weary  bones,  120 

While  Southet's  Epics  cram  the  creaking  shelves, 
And  Little's  Lyrics  shine  in  hot-pressed  twelves. 

*    IMITATION. 

•'  Cur  tamen  hoc  libeat  poiius  decurrerc  campo 

"  Per  quem  magnus  equos  Aurunca;  flexit  alumnus: 

♦'  Si  vacat,  et  placidi  rationcm  admittitis,  eadem." 

JuvENAi.,  Satire  I. 


AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWEllS.  89 

Thus  saith  the  Preacher  ;*   "  nought  beneath  the  sun 
«•  Is  new,"  yet  still  from  change  to  change  we  run  ! 
What  varied  wonders  tempt  us  as  they  pass  ! 
The  Cow-pox,  Tractors,   Galvanism  and  Gas 
In  turns  appear  to  make  the  vulgar  stare, 
'Till  the  swoln  bubble  bursts —  and  all  is  air  ! 
Nor  less  new  schools  of  Poetry  arise, 

Where  dull  pretenders  grapple  for  the  prize;  130 

O'er  Taste  awhile  these  Pseudo-bards  prevail ; 
Each  country  Book-club  bows  the  knee  to  Baal, 
And,  hurling  lawful  Genius  from  the  throne. 
Erects  a  shrine  and  idol  of  its  own ; 
Some  leaden  calf — but  whom  it  matters  not. 
From  soaring  Southky  down  to  groveling  SiOTT.f 

Behold  !  in  various  throngs  the  scribbling  crew, 
For  notice  eager,  pass  in  long  review  : 
Each  spurs  his  jaded  Pegasus  apace, 

And  Rhyme  and  Blank  maintain  an  equal  race;  l^O 

Sonnets  on  sonnets  crowd,  nnd  ode  on  ode; 
And  Tales  of  Terror  jostle  on  the  road  ; 
Immeasurable  measures  move  along; 
For  simpering  Folly  loves  a  varied  song, 
To  strange  mysterious  Dullness  still  the  friend^ 
Admires  ihe  strain  she  cannot  comprehend. 
Thus  Lays  of  Minstrel^  — may  they  be  the  last !  — 
On  half-strung  harps  whine  mournful  to  the  blast. 
While  mountain  spirits  prate  to  river  sprites, 
That  dames  may  listen  to  their  sound  at  nights;  150 

*  Ecclssiastes.  Cap.  1. 
f  Stott,  belter  known  in  in  the  "  Morning  Post"  by  the 
name  of  Hafiz.  This  personage  is,  at  preient,  the  mo«t 
profound  explorer  of  the  Bathos.  I  remember,  on  the 
reigning  family  at  Portugal,  a  special  ode  of  Master  Stott'?, 
beginning  thutf^ 

(Stott  loquitur  quoad  Hibernia) 
"  Princely  offspring  of  Braganza, 
"  Erin  greets  thee  with  a  stanza,"  &.c.  &c. 
Also  a  sonnet  to  Hats,  well  worthy  of  the  subject,  and  a  most 
tliundering  ode,  commencing  as  follows:  — 
"  Oh  !  for  a  Lay  !   loud  as  the  surge 
"  That  lashes  Lapland's  sounding  shore." 
Lord  have  mercy  on  us  !  the  "  Lay  of  the  last  Minstrel"  was 
nothing  to  this. 

\   See  the  "  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  pensim.     Nevci- 
was  any  plan  so  incongruous  and  absurd  as  Uie  ground'Woik 

u  2 


90  ENGLISH  BARDS, 

And  goblin  brats  of  Gilpin  Horner's  brood 
Decoy  young  Border-nobles  through  the  wood. 
And  skip  at  every  step,   Lord  knows  how  high. 
And  frighten  foolish  babes,  the  Lord  knows  why, 
While  high-born  ladies  in  their  magic  cell, 
Forbidding  Knights  to  read  who  cannot  spell, 
Dispatch  a  courier  to  a  wizard's  grave, 
And  fight  with  honest  men  to  shield  a  knave. 

Next  view  in  state,  proud  prancing  on  his  roan, 
The  golden-crested  haughty  Marmion,  160 

Now  forging  scrolls,  now  foremost  in  the  fight. 
Not  quite  a  Felon,  yet  but  half  a  Knight. 
The  gibbet  or  the  field  prepared  to  grace, 
A  mighty  mixture  of  the  great  and  base. 
And  think'st  thou,   Scott  !  by  vain  conceit,  perchance. 
On  public  taste  to  foist  thy  stale  romance. 
Though  Murray  with  his  Miller  may  combine 
To  yield  thy  muse  just  half-a-crown  per  line? 
No  I   when  the  sons  of  song  descend  to  trade. 
Their  bays  are  sear,  their  former  laurels  fade.  ]  70 

Let  such  forego  the  Poet's  sacred  name, 
"Who  rack  their  brains  for  lucre,  not  for  fame  5 
Low  may  they  sink  to  merited  contempt, 
And  scorn  remunerate  the  mean  attempt ! 
Such  be  their  meed,  such  sliil  the  just  reward 
Of  prostituted  Muse  and  hireling  Bard  ! 
For  this  we  spurn  Apollo's  venal  son, 
And  bid  a  long  "  good  night  to  Marmion."* 

These  are  the  themes  that  claim  our  plaudits  now  ; 
Tliese  are  the  Bards  to  whom  the  Muse  must  bow-.  180 


of  this  production.  The  entrance  of  Thunder  and  Lightning 
prologuising  to  Bayes'  Tragedy  unfortunatd^akes  away  the 
merit  of  originality  from  the  dialogue  between  Messieurs  the 
Spirits  of  Flood  and  Fell  in  the  first  canto.  Then  we  have 
the  amiable  William  of  Deloraine,  "  a  stark  moss-trooper," 
videlicet,  a  happy  compound  of  poacher,  sheep-stealer,  and 
highwayman.  The  propriety  of  his  magical  lady's  injunction, 
not  to  read,  can  on^y  be  equalled  by  his  candid  acknowledg- 
ment of  his  independence  of  the  trammels  of  spelling,  although 
to  use  his  own  elegant  phrase,  "  'twas  his  neck>verse  at  ha- 
libee,''  i.  e.  the  gallows. 

•  "  Good  night  to  Marmion"  —  tha  pathetic  gnd  also  pro- 
phetic exclamation  of  Henry  Blouni,  Esquire,  on  the  death 
of  honest  Marmion. 


AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  91 

While  Milton,  Dryden,  Pope,  alike  forgot, 
Resign  their  hallowed  bays  to  Walter  Scoii. 

The  time  has  been  when  yet  the  Muse  was  young, 
When  Homer  swept  the  lyre,  and  Maro  sung. 
An  Epic  scarce  ten  centuries  could  claim, 
While  awe-struck  nations  hailed  the  magic  name  : 
The  work  of  each  immortal  Bard  appears 
The  single  wonder  of  a  thousand  years,* 
Empires  have  mouldered  from  the  face  of  earth, 
Tongues  have  expired  v.ith  those  who  gave  them  birth,     1  SO 
Without  the  glory  such  a  strain  can  give. 
As  even  in  ruin  bids  the  language  live. 
Not  so  with  us,  though  minor  Bards  content, 
On  one  great  work  a  life  of  labour  spent : 
With  eagle  pinion  soaring  to  the  skies, 
Behold  the  Ballad-naonger  Southey  rise  ! 
To  him  let  Camoeks,   Milton,   Tasso,  yield, 
Whose  annual  strains,  like  armies  take  the  field. 
First  in  the  ranks,  see  Joan  of  Arc  advance. 
The  scourge  of  England,  and  the  boast  of  France  I  200 

Though  burnt  by  wicked  BEnroRD  for  a  witch, 
Behold  her  statue,  plactd  in  Glory's  niche; 
Her  fetters  burst,  and  just  released  from  prison, 
A  virgin  Phoenix  from  her  ashes  risen. 
Next  see  tremendous  Thalaba  come  on,f 
Arabia's  monstrous,  wild,  and  wond'rous  son  ; 
Domdaniel's  dread  destroyer,  who  o'erthrew 
More  mad  magicians  than  the  world  e'«r  knew. 
Immortal  Hero  I   all  thy  foes  o'ercome, 

For  ever  reign  —  the  rival  of  Tom  Thumb  !  210 

Since  startled  metre  fled  before  thy  face, 
Well  wert  thou  doomed  the  last  of  all  thy  race  ! 

•  As  the  Odyssey  is  so  closely  connected  with  the  story  of 
the  Iliad,  tli(|||||tanay  almost  be  classed  as  one  grand  historical 
poem.  In  aTTudinw  to  Milton  and  Tasso,  we  consider  the 
"  Paradise  Lost,"  and  «'  Gierusalemme  Liberata"  as  their 
standard  efforts,  since  neither  the  "  Jerusalem  Conquered"  of 
the  Italian,  nor  the  ♦«  Paradise  Regained"  of  the  English 
Bard,  obtained  a  proportionate  celebrity  to  their  former  Poems. 
Query  :   Which  of  Mr.  Southey's  will  survive  ? 

f  Thalaba,  Mr.  Soiithey's  second  poem,  is  written  in  open 
defiance  of  precedent  and  poetry.  Mr.  S.  wished  to  produca 
Bornething  novel,  and  succeeded  to  a  miracle.  Joan  of  Arc 
was  marvellous  enough,  but  Thalaba  was  one  of  those  poems- 
•«  which,"  in  the  words  of  Pobson,  "  will  be  read  when  He- 
wer and  Virgil  are  forgotten,  b\H-—nol  till  Uim." 


92  ENGLISH  BARDS, 

Well  might  triumphant  Genii  bear  thee  heBce, 

Illustrious  conqueror  of  common  tense  ! 

Now,  last  and  greatest,   Madoc  spreads  his  saili, 

Cacique  in  Mexico,  and   Prince  in  Wales  ; 

Tells  us  strange  taUs,  as  other  travellers  do, 

More  old  than  Mandeville's  and  not  so  true. 

Oh!   SouTHET,   SouTHEy!*  cease  thy  Taried  song! 

A  Bard  may  chaunt  tco  often  and  too  longi  220 

As  thou  art  strong  in  verss,  in  mercy  spare  ! 

A  fourth,  alas !   were  more  than  we  could  bear. 

But  if,  in  spite  of  all  the  world  can  lay, 

Thou  still  wilt  verseward  plod  thy  weary  way  ; 

If  still  in  Berkley  Ballads  most  uncivil. 

Thou  wilt  devote  old  women  to  the  devil.f     ^ 

The  babij  unborn  thy  dread  intent  may  rue  : 

"  God  help  tiiee  "   SouTHEr,  and  thy  readers  too.  ^ 

Next  come*  the  dull  disciple  of  thy  school, 
That  mild  apostate  from  poetic  rule,  230 

The  simple  Wordsworth,  framer  of  a  lay 
As  soft  as  evening  in  hit  farourite  PJay  ; 
Who  warns  his  friend  "  to  shake  off  toil  and  trouble, 
And  quit  his  books  for  fear  of  growing  double  ;"y 
Wbo,  both  by  precept  and  example,  si  ows 
That  proie  is  versa,  and  verse  is  merely  prese, 

*  We  beg  Mr:  SouTHEy's  pardon  :  "  Madoc  di&dains  the 
degraded  title  of  Epic."  See  his  preface.  Why  is  Epic  de- 
graded ?  and  by  whom  ?  Certainly  the  late  Romaunts  of  Mas- 
ters Cottle,  Laureat  Pye,  OaiLvy,  Hole,  and  gentle  Mis- 
treis  Cowley,  have  not  exalted    the  Epic  Muse,  but  as  Mr. 

Socthey's  poem  <'  disJains  the  appellation,"  allow  us  to  ask 

has  he  suljsiituted  any  thing  better  in  its  stead  ?  or  muit  he  be 
content  to  rival  Sir  Richaud  BLACKHoaK,  in  the  quantity  as 
well  as  quality  of  his  verse  ? 

f  See  the  Old  Women  of  Berkley,  a  BWad  by  Mr. 
SouTHET,  wherein  an  aged  Gentlewoman  is  cmied  away  by 
Beelzebub,  on  a  "high-trotting  horse." 

\  The  last  line,  "  God  help  thee,"  is  an  evident  plagiarism 
from  the  Anti-jacobin  to  Mr.  Southey^  on  his  Dactylics: 

"  God  help  thee,  silly  one."  —  Poetry  of  the  Anti-jacobin, 
page  23. 

II    Lyrical   Ballads,    page  4 — "  The   tables  turntd." 

Slanzal. 

"  Up>  up  my  friend,  and  clear  your  looks, 

"  Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble  ? 
"  Up,  up  my  friend,  and  quit  your  books, 
**  Or  surely  you'll  grow  double." 


AND  SCOTCH   REVIEWERS.  95 

Convincing  all  by  demonstration  plain, 

Poetic  souls  delight  in  prose  insane ; 

And  Christmas  stories  tortured  into  rhyme, 

Contain  the  essence  of  the  true  sublime  :  240 

Thus  when  he  tells  the  tale  of  Betty  Foy, 

The  idiot  mother  of  "  an  idiot  Boy  ;" 

A  moon-struek  silly  lad  who  lost  his  way. 

And,  like  his  bard,  confounded  night  with  day,* 

So  close  on  each  pathetic  part  he  dwells, 

And  each  adventure  so  sublimely  tells, 

That  all  who  view  the  "  idiot  in  his  glory," 

Conceive  the  Bard  the  hero  of  the  story. 

Shall  gentle  Coleridcse  pass  unnoticed  hers. 
To  turgid  ode  and  tumid  stanza  dear  ?  250 

Though  themes  of  innocence  amuse  him  best. 
Yet  still  obscurity  's  a  welcome  guest. 
If  inspiration  should  her  aid  refuse 
To  him  who  takes  a  Pixy  for  a  Mu8e,f 
Yet  none  in  lofty  numbers  can  surpass 
The  bard  who  soars  to  elegize  an  ass. 
How  well  the  subject  suits  his  noble  mind  ! 
"  A  fellow  feeling  makes  us  wond'rous  kind." 

Oh  !' wonder-working  Lewis  ;  Monk  or  Bard, 
Who  fain  wouldst  make  Parnassus  a  cburch-jard  !  260 

Lo,  Wreaths  of  yew,  not  laurel,  bind  thy  brow, 
Thy  Muse  a  Sprite,  Apollo's  sexton  thou  ' 
Whether  on  antient  tombs  thou  tak'st  thy  stand. 
By  gibb'ring  spectres  hailed,  tl)y  kindred  band  ; 
Or  tracest  chaste  descriptions  on  thy  page, 
To  please  the  females  of  our  modest  age, 
All  hail,  M.  P.|  !  from  whose  infernal  brain 
Thin  ftheeted  pbantocns  glide,  a  grisly  train  ; 

•  Mr.  W.  ^  his  preface,  labours  hard  to  prove  that  prose 
and  verse  are  much  .the  same,  and  certainly  his  precept*  and 
practice  are  strictly  conformable  : 

'♦  And  thus  fo  Betty's  questions  he 

"  Made  answer  like  a  traveller  bold, 

"  The  cock  did  crow  to-whno,   fo-whoo  ; 

*'  And  the  sun  did  sliine  so  cold,"  &-c.  &c. 

Lyrical  Ballads,  page  129. 
■f   Coleridge's  Poems,  page  11.      Songs  of  the  Pixies,  i.  e. 
Devonshire  Fairies.     Page  42,  we  have   "  Lines  to   a  young 
Lady,"  and  page  52,  "  Lines  to  a  young  Ass." 

\  "  For  every  one  knows  liula  Matt 's  an  M.  P-"— See  e. 


94  ENGLISH  BARD3, 

At  whose  aommand  "  grim  women"  throng  in  crowds. 

And  kings  of  fire,  of  water,  and  of  clouds,  270 

With  "  small  grey  men," —  "  wild  yagers,"  and  what  not, 

To  crown  with  honour,  thee  and  Walter  Scott; 

Again  all  hail !      If  tales  like  thine  may  plwst, 

St.  Luke  alone  can  vanquish  the  disease  ; 

Even  Satan's  self  with  ihee  might  dread  to  dwell. 

And  in  thy  skull  discern  a  deeper  hell. 

Who  in  soft  guise,  surrounded  by  a  choir. 
Of  virgins  melting,  not  to  Vesta's  fire. 
With  sparkling  eyes  and  cheek  by  passion  flushed. 
Strikes  his  wild  Lyre  whilst  liitening  damea  are  husljcd?  280 
'Tis  Little  !  young  Catullus  of  his  day, 
As  swset,  but  as  immoral  in  hia  lay  ! 
Grieved  to  condemn,  ihe  muse  must  still  be  just, 
Nor  spare  melodious  advocates  of  lust. 
Pure  is  the  flame  which  o'er  her  altar  burns  ; 
From  grosser  incense  with  disgust  she  turns ; 
Yet,  kind  to  youth,  this  expiation  o'er, 
She  bids  thee  "  mend  thy  line  and  sin  no  more," 

For  thca,  tranilator  of  the  tinsel  eong. 
To  whom  such  glittering  ornaments  belong,  290 

Hibernian  Strangford  !  with  thine  eyes  of  blue* 
And  boasted  locks  of  red  or  auburn  hue. 
Whose  plaintive  strain  each  love-sick  Miss  admires, 
And  o'er  harmonious  fusiain  half  expires. 
Learn,  if  thou  can'st,  to  yield  thine  author's  sense. 
Nor  vend  thy  sonnets  on  a  false  pretence, 
Think'st  thou  to  gain  thy  verse  a  higher  place 
By  dressing  Caraoene  in  a  suit  of  lace  ? 
Mend,  Strangford  !  mend  thy  morals  and  thy  taste  : 
Be  warm,  but  pure,  be  amorous,  but  be  chaste ;  300 

Cease  to  deceive;    thy  pilfered  harp  restore. 
Nor  teach  the  Lusian  Bard  to  copy  Mooke.  ^ 

Poem  to    Mr.    Lewis,    in  the    Staibsman,   supposed  to   be 
written  by  Mr.  Jektll. 

*  The  reader  who  may  wish  for  an  explanation  of  this, 
may  refer  to  "  Strangford's  Camoens,"  page  127,  note  to 
page  56,  or  to  the  last  page  of  the  Edinburgh  Review  of 
Strakgford's  Camozns.  It  is  also  to  be  remarked,  that  the 
things  given  to  the  public  as  Poems  of  Camoens,  are  no  mor« 
to  be  found  in  the  original  Portuguese  than  in  the  Song  of 
Solomon. 


AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  'SS 

In  many  marble-covered  volumes  view 
Hatley,  in  vain  attempting  something  new; 
Whether  he  spin  his  comedies  in  rhyme, 
Or  scrawl,  ai  Wood  and  Barclay  walk  'gainst  time, 
His  style  in  youth  or  age  is  still  tlie  same  ; 
For  ever  feeble  and  for  ever  tame, 
Triumphant  first  see  "  Temper's  Triumph's"  shine  ! 
At  least  I'm  sure  they  triumphed  over  mine.  310 

Of  •'  Music's  Triumph's"  all  v»ho  road  may  swear 
That  luckless  Music  never  triumphed  there.* 

Moravians  rise  !  bestow  some  meet  reward 
On  dull  devotion  —  lo  !  the  Sabbath  Bard, 
Sepulchral  Grahame,  pours  his  notes  sublime, 
In  mangled  prose,  nor  e'en  aspires  to  rhyme, 
Breaks  into  blank  the  Gospel  of  Si.  Luke, 
And  boldly  pilfers  from  the  Pentateuch  ; 
And,  undisturbed  by  conscientious  qualms. 
Perverts  the  Prophets,  and  purloins  the  P«almg.f  320 

Hail  Sympathy  !  thy  soft  idea  brings 
A  thousand  visions  of  a  thousand  things. 
And  shows,  dissolved  in  thine  own  melting  tears. 
The  maudlin  Prince  of  mournful  sonneteers, 
And  art  thou  not  their  Prince,  harmonious  BowtES? 
Thou  first,  great  oracle  of  tender  souls  ? 
Whether  in  sighing  winds  thou  seek'st  relief, 
Or  consolation  in  a  yellow  leaf; 
Whether  thy  muse  most  lami'ntably  tells 
What  merry  sounds  proceed  from  Oxford  bells,^  330 

Or,  still  in  bells  delighting,  finds  a  friend. 
Id  every  chime  th»t  jingled  from  Ostend  ? 

*  Hatley's  two  moat  notorious  verse  productions  are, 
"  Triumph's  of  Temper,"  and  '♦  Triumphs  of  Mu»ic. "  He 
hat  also  written  much  Comedy  in  rhyme,  Epi»tles,  &c.  &;c. 
As  he  is  rsther  an  elegant  writer  of  notes  and  biography,  let 
u»  recommend  Pope's  Advice  to  Wycherly,  to  Mr.  H's 
consideration?  viz.  "to  convert  his  poetry  iiiio^proie,"  vfhich 
may  be  easily  done  by  tzking  aw»y  the  final  syllable  of  each 
couplet. 

f  Mr.  Grahame  lias  poured  forsh  two  volumes  of  Cant, 
under  the  name  of  "  Sabbath  Walks,"  and  "  Biblical  Pic- 
lures." 

I  See  Bowles's  Sonnets,  &c. — "  Sonnets  to  Oxford,"  and 
"  Stanzas  on  hearing  the  Bells  of  Ostend." 


S)|f  ENGLISH  BARDS, 

Ah  !  how  much  juster  were  thy  Muse's  hap, 

If  to  thy  bells  thou  would'st  but  add  a  cap ! 

Delightful  Bowles  !  still  blessing,  and  still  bleat. 

All  love  thy  strain,  but  children  like  it  best. 

'Tis  thine  with  gentle  Little's  moral  song. 

To  soothe  the  mania  of  the  amorous  throng  ! 

With  thee  our  nursery  damsels  shed  their  tears, 

Ere  Miss,  as  yet,  completes  her  infant  years  :  540 

But  in  her  teens  thy  whining  powers  are  vain  ; 

She  quits  poor  Bowles,  for  Little's  purer  strain. 

Now  to  soft  themes  thou  scornest  to  confine 

The  lofty  numbers  of  a  harp  like  thine  -. 

*'  Awake  a  louder  and  a  loftier  strain,"* 

Such  as  none  heard  batbro,  or  will  again  ; 

Where  all  discoveries  jumbled  from  the  flood. 

Since  first  the  leaky  ark  reposed  in  mud. 

By  more  or  lesj,  are  sung  in  every  book. 

From   Capfkin  Noah  down  to  Captain   Cock.  350 

Nor  this  alone,  but  pausing  on  the  road, 

The  Bard  sighs  forth  a  gentle  episode  ;•}■ 

And  gravely  tells  —  atiend  each  beauteous  Miss  !  — - 

When  first  Madeira  trembled  to  a  kiss. 

BowLHS  !   in  thy  memory,  let  this  precept  dwoll. 

Stick  to  thy  Sonneis,  man  !   at  least  they  sell. 

But  if  some  new-born  whim,  or  larger  bribe 

Prompt  thy  crude  brain,  and  claim  thoe  for  a  scribe; 

If  chance  some  bard,  though  once  by  dunces  feared, 

Now,  prone  in  dust,  can   only  be  revered  :  360 

If  Pope,  whose  fame  and  genius  from  the  first 

Have  foiled  the  best  of  Critics,  needs  the  worst, 

Do  thou  essay  ;  each  fault,    each  failing  scan  ; 

The  firat  of  poets  was,  alas  !   but  man! 

*  "  Awake  a  louder,"  &c.  &c.  is  the  first  line  in  Bowles's 
"  Spirit  of  Discovery  ;"  a  very  spirited  and  pretty  dwarf  Epic. 
Among  other  exquisite  lines  we  have  the  following:  — 

"  A  kiss, 

"  Stole  on  the  list'ning  silence,  never  yet, 

*'  Here  heard  :  they  trembled  even  as  if  the  power,"  &c. 
&c. — That  is,  the  woods  of  Madeira  trembled  to  a  kiss,  very 
much  astonished,  as  well  they  might  be,  at  such  a  pheno- 
menon. 

•f  The  Episode  above  alluded  to,  is  the  story  of  "  Robert 
a  Machin,"  and  "  Anna  d'Arfet,"  a  pair  of  constant  lover*, 
who  performed  the  kiss  above-mentioned,  that  startled  the 
woods  of  Madeira. 


AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  97 

Rake  from  each  antient  dunghill  every  pearl, 

Consult  Lord  Fanny  and  confide  in  Curll  ;* 

Let  all  the  scandals  of  a  former  age, 

Perch  on  thy  pen  and  flutter  o'er  thy  page; 

Affect  a  candour  which  thou  can'st  not  feel, 

Clothe  envy  in  the  garb  of  honest  zeal  ;  S70 

Write  as  if  St.  Johns  soul  could  still  inspire. 

And  do  from  hate  what  Mallet!  did  for  hire. 

Oh  !   had'si  tliou  lived  in  that  congenial  lime, 

To  rave  with  Dennis,  and  with  Ralph  to  rhyme,! 

Thronged  with  the  rest  around  his  living  head, 

Not  raised  thy  hoof  against  the  lion  dead, 

A  meet  reward  had  crowned  thy  glorious  gains. 

And  linked  thee  to  the  Dunciad  for  thy  pains.  || 

Another  Epic  !   who  inflicts  again 
More  books  of  blank  upon  the  sons  of  men  ?  380 

Eceotian  Cottle,  rich  I5ribtowa's  boast, 
Imports  old   stories  from  the  Cambrian  coast. 
And  sends  his  goods  to  market  —  all  alive  ! 
Lines  forty  thousand,  Cantos  twenty-five  ! 
Fresh  fish  from  Helicon  !  who'll  buy  ?  who'll  buy  ? 
The  precious  bargain  's  cheap  —  in  faith  not  I, 
Too  much   in  turtle,  Bristol's  sons  delight, 
Too  much  o'er  bowls  of  Rack  prolong  the  night; 
If  commerce  fills  the  purse  she  clogs  the  brain, 
And  Amos  Cottle  strikes  the  Lyre  in  vain.  390 

In  him  an  author's  luckles*  lot  behold  ! 
Condemned  to  make  the  books  which  once  he  sold, 
Oil!   Amos   Cottle!   Phoebus! — what  a  name 
To  fill  the  speaking  trump  of  future  fame  I 

*  Curll  is  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  Dunciad,  and  was  a 
Bookseller.  Lord  Fanny  is  the  poetical  name  of  Lord  Her- 
vey,  author  of  "  Lines  to  the  Imitator  of  Horace." 

f  Lord  13onKGB«oKE  hired  Mallet  to  traduce  PorK  after 
his  decease,  because  the  Poet  had  ntained  some  copies  of  a 
work  by  Lord  Bolingbroke,  (the  Patriot  King)  which  that 
splendid,  but  malignant  genius,  had  ordered  to  be  destroyed. 

!    Dennis  the  critic,  and    Kalph  the  iliymester. 

•«  Silence,  ye  wohes!   While  Ralph  to  Cynthia   howls, 

"  Making  night  hideous,  answer  him  ye  owls!" 

Dunciad. 

II  See  Bowles's  late  edition  of  Pope's  woiks,  for  which  he 
received  SOO  pounds  :  thus  Mr.  B.  has  experienced  hew  much 
easier  it  is  to  profit  by  the  reputation  of  another,  than  to  ele- 
vate his  own. 

I 


9S  ENGLISH  BARDS, 

Oh!  Amos  Cottle!   for  a  moment  think 

"What  meagre  profits  spring  from  pen  and  ink  ! 

"When  thus  devoted  to  poetic  dreams, 

Who  will  peruse  thy  prostituted  reams? 

Oh  !   pen  perverted  !  paper  misapplied  ! 

Had   Cottle*  itill  adorned  the  counter's  side,  400 

Bent  o'er  iha  desk,  or   born  to  useful  toils, 

Been   taught  to  make  the  paper  which  he  soils, 

Ploughed,  delved,  or  plied  the  oar  with  lusty  limb, 

He  had  not  sung  of  Wales,  nur  I  of  him. 

As  Sisyphus  against  the  infernal  steep 
II  )il3  the  hug.»  rock,  whose  motions  ne'er  may  sleep, 
So  up  thy  bill,  ambrosial  Richmond  !   heaves  . 
Dull   JVlAURiCEf   all  his  granite  weigh?  of  leaves  : 
Smooth  solid  monuments  of  mental  pain  ! 
The  petrifactions  of  a  plodding  brain,  410 

That  ere  they  reach  the  top  fall  lumbering  back  again. 

With  broken  lyre  and  cheek  serenely  pale, 
L,o  !  sad  Alc.eus  wanders  down  the  vale  ! 
Though  fair  they  rose,  and   might  have  bloomed  at  last, 
His  hopes  have  perished  by  the  northern  blast  : 
Kipped  in  the  bud   by   Caledonian  gales, 
His  blossoms  wither  as  the  blast  prevails  ! 
O'er  his  lost  works  let  classic  Sheffield  weep  ; 
May  no  rude  hand  disturb  their  early  sleep.| 

Yet  say  I  why  should  the  bard   at  once  resign  420 

His  claim  to  favour  from  the  sacred  Nine? 

*  Mr.  Cottle,  Amos  or  Joseph,  I  don't  know  which,  but 
one  or  both,  once  sellers  of  books  they  did  not  wiite,  and  noiv 
■writers  of  books  thai  do  not  sell,  have  publisi  ed  a  pair  of 
Epics  "  Alfred"  (poor  Alfred  !  Pye  has  been  at  him  too  I) 
•'  Alfred"  and  the    "  Fall  of  Cambria." 

+  Mr.  Maukice  haih  manufactured  the  component  parts 
of  a  ponderous  q'larto,  upon  tlie  beauties  of  "  Richmond 
Hill  "  and  the  like  :  it  also  takes  in  a  charming  view  of  Turn- 
ham  green,  Hammersmith,  Brtniford,  Old  and  New,  and  the 
parts  adjacent. 

I  Poor  Montgomery  I  though  praised  by  every  English 
Preview,  has  been  bitieriy  revikd  by  the  Edi.vburgh.  After  all, 
the  Bard  of  Sheffield  is  a  man  of  considerable  genius  :  his 
«'  Wanderer  of  Siviizerland"  is  worth  a  thousand  "  Lyrical 
Ballads,"  and  at  leait  fifty    "  Degraded  Epics." 


AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  99 

For  ever  startled  by  the  mingled  howl 

Of  Northern  wolves  that  still   in  darkness  prowl: 

A  coward  brood  which  mangle  as  they  prey, 

By  hellish   instinct,  all  that  cross  their   way  : 

Aged  or  young,  the  living  and  the  dead, 

No  m«rcy  find  —  these  harpies  must  be  fed. 

Why  do  the  injured  unresisting  yield 

The  calm  possession  of  their  native  field  ? 

Why  tamely  thus  before  their  fangs  retreat,  430 

Nor  hunt  the  bloodhounds  back  to  Akthur's  stat?* 

Health  to  immortal  Jeffrey  !   once  in  name, 
England  could  boast  a  judge  almost  the  same  : 
In  soul  so  like,  so  merciful,  yet  just, 
Some  think  that  Satan  has  resigned  his  trust. 
And  given  the  Spirit  to  the  world  again, 
To  sentence  Letters  as  he  sentenced  men ; 
With  hand  less  mighty,  but  with  heart  as  black, 
With  voice  as  willing  to  decree  the  rackj 

Bred  in  the  Courts  beiimes,  though  all  that  law  440 

As  yet  hath  taught  him,  is  to  find  a  flaw. 
Since  well  instructed  in  the  patriot  school 
To  rail  at  party,  though  a  party  tool, 
Who  knows?    if  chance  his  patrons  should  restore 
Back  to  the  sway  they  forfeited  before. 
His  scribbling  toils  some  recompence  may  meet, 
And  raise  this  Daniel  to  the  Judgment  Seat. 
Let  Jeffries'  shade  indulge  the  pious  hope. 
And  greeting  thus  present  him  wiih  a  rope  : 
"  Heir  to  my  virtues  !  man  of  equal  mind  !  450 

"  Skill'd  to  condemn  as  to  traduce  mankind, 
"  This  cord  receive!  for  thee  reserved  with  care, 
"  To  yield  in  judgment,  and  at  length  to  wear." 

Health  to  great  Jeffrey  !     Heaven  preserve  bis  life, 
To  flourish  on  the  fertile  shores  of  Fife, 
And  guard  it  sacred  in   his  future  wars, 
Since  authors  sometimes  seek  the  field  of  Mars  ! 
Can  none  remember  that  eventful  day. 
That  ever  glorious,  almost  faiai  fray, 

When  Little's  leadlebs  pistol  met  his  eye,  460 

And  Bow-street  Myrmidons  stood  laughing  by  ?■{• 

*    Arthur's  seat;  the  hill  which  overhangs  Edinburgh. 

+  In  1806,  Messrs.  Jeffrey  and  Moore,  met  at  Chalk-farm. 
The  duel  was  prevented  by  the  interference  of  the  Magistracy  ; 
and,  on  examination,  the  balls  of  the  pistols,  like  the  courage 


100  ENGLISH  BARDS, 

Ob  !  (lay  disastrous  !  on  her  firm  set  rock, 
Duiiedin's  castle  felt  a  secret  shock  ; 
Dark  roU'd  the  sympathetic  waves  of  Forth, 
Low  groaned  iho  startled  whirlwinds  of  the  North  ; 
Tweed  ruffled  half  his  wave  to  form  a  tear, 
The  oT;her  half  pursued  liis  calm  career  ;* 
Arthur's  steep  summit  nodded  to  its  base. 
The  surly  Tolbooth  scarcely  kept  her  pUce  ; 
The  Tolhouih  felt  —  for  marble  sometimes  can,  470 

On  such  occasions,  feel  as  much  as  man — 
The  Tolbooth  felt  defrauded  of  his  charms, 
If  Jeffrey  died,  except  within  her  arms;-|- 
Nay,  last  not  least,  on  that  portentous  morn 
The  sixteenth  story  where  himself  was  born,  ^ 
His  patrimonial  garret  fell  to  ground. 
And  pale  Edina  sliuddeied  at  the  sound  : 
Strewed  were  the  streets  around  with  milk-white  reams, 
Flowed  all  the  Caiiongate  with  inky  streams; 
This  of  his  candour  seemed  the  sable  dew,  480 

That  of  his  valour  showed  the  bloodless  hue. 
And  all  with  justice  deemed  the  two  combined 
The  mingled  emblems  of  his  mighty  mind. 
But  Caledonia's  Goddess  hovered  o'er 
The  field,  and  saved  him  from  the  wrath  of  Moore  ; 
From  either  pistol  snatched  the  vengeful  iead. 
And  straight  restored  it  to  her  favourite's  head, 
That  head,  with  greater  than  magnetic  power. 
Caught  it,  as  Danae  the  golden  shower, 

And  though  the  thickening  dross  will  acarce  refine,  490 

Augments  its  ore,  and  is  itself  a  mine. 
«'  My  son,"  she  cried,  "  ne'er  thirst  for  gore  again, 
'  Resign  the  pistol,  and  resume  the  pen  ; 


of  the  combatants,  were  found  to  have  evap  rated.      This  in- 
cident gave  occasion  to  much  waggery  in  the  daily  prints. 

*  The  Tweed  here  behaved  with  proper  decorum,  it  would 
have  been  highly  reprehensible  in  tha  English  half  of,  the 
River  to  liave  shown  the  smallest  symptom  of  apprehension. 

+  This  display  of  sympathy  on  the  part  of  the  Tolbooth, 
(the  principal  prison  in  Edinburgh)  which  truly  seems  to 
have  been  most  affected  on  this  occasion,  is  much  to  be  com- 
mended. It  was  to  be  apprehended,  that  the  many  unhappy 
criminals  executed  in  the  front,  might  have  rendered  the 
edifice  more  callous.  Shs  is  said  to  be  of  the  softer  sex,  be- 
cause her  delicacy  of  feeling  on  this  day  wus  truly  fern i rune  ; 
though,  like  most  feminine  impulses,  perhaps  a  little  selfish. 


'  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  101 

"  O'er  politics  and  Poesy  preside, 

♦'  Boast  of  thy  country  and  Britannia's  guide! 

"  For  long  as  Albion's  heedless  sons  submit, 

"  Or  Scottish  taste  decides  on  Englibh  wit, 

"  So  long  shall  last  thine  unmolested  reign, 

"  Nor  any  dare  to  lake  thy  name  in  vain. 

"  Behold  a  choien  band  shall  aid  thy  plan,  500 

"  And  own  thee  chieftain  of  the  critic  clan; 

"  First  in  the  ranks  illustrious  shall  be  seen 

"  The  travelled  Thane!    Athenian  Aberdeen.* 

"  Herbert  shall  wield  Thor's  hammer,  (•  and  sometimes 

"  In  gratitude  ihou'lt  praise  his  rugged  rhymes. 

"  Smug  Sydneyj:  loo  ihj  bitter  page  shall  seek, 

"  And  classic  Hallam||  much  renowned  for  Greek. 

"  Scott  may  perchance  his  name  and  influence  lend, 

"  And  paltry  Pillans§  bliall  traduce  his  friend; 

"  Wl.ile  gay  Thalia's  luckless  votary,   LAMBE.f  510 

"  As  he  himself  was  damned,  shall  try  to  damn. 

"  Known  by  the  name!   unbounded  by  i he  sway  I 

"  Thy  Holland's  banquets  shall  each  toil  repay  ; 

"  W  hi! e  grateful  Britain  yields  the  praise  she  owes, 

"  To  Holland's  hirelings,  and  to  Learning's  foes. 

*  His  Lordship  has  been  much  abroad,  is  a  Member  of 
the  Athenian  Society,  and  Reviewer  of  "  Cell's  Topography 
of  Troy." 

f  Mr.  Herbert  is  a  Translator  of  Icelandic  and  other 
poetry.  One  of  the  principal  pieces  is  a  "  Song  on  the  reco- 
very of  Thor's  Hammer ;"  the  translation  is  a  pleasant  chaunt 
in  the  vulgar  tongue,  and  ended  thus  :  — 

•'  Instead  of  money  and  rings,  I  wot, 
*•  The  hammer's  bruises  were  her  lot, 
•'  Thus  Odin's  son  his  hammer  got." 

I  The  Rev.  Sydney  Smith,  the  reputed  author  of  Peter 
Plymley's  Letters,  at5d  sundry  Criticisms. 

II  Mr.  Hallam  reviewed  Payne  Knighst's  Taste,  and  was 
exceedingly  severe  on  some  Greek  verses  therein  :  it  vvdS  not 
discovered  that  the  lines  were  Pindar's,  till  the  press  rendered 
it  iinpossible  to  cat-eel  the  critique,  which  still  stands  an  ever< 
lastiu}!  moiuimeni  of  Hallam's  ingenuity. 

§    Pillans  is  a  tutor  at  Eton, 

^  The  Hon.  G.  Lambe  reviewed  "  Beresford's  Miseries," 
and  is  moreover  Author  of  a  Farce  enacted  with  much  ap- 
plause al  the  Priory,  Slanmore;  and  damned  with  great  ex- 
pedition at  tlie  late  Theatre,  Covtnt-Gardeu.  It  was  eiilitkd 
i«  Whistle  for  it," 

X  2 


102  ENGLISH  BARDS, 

"  Yet  mark  one  caution,  ere  thy  next  Review 

•'  Spread  its  liglit  wings  of  SafFron  and  of  Blue. 

*'  Beware  lest  blundering  Brougham*  destroy  the  sale, 

"  Turn  Beef  to  Bannocks,  Cauliflowers  to  Kail." 

Thus  having  said,  the  kilted  Goddess  kist  520 

Her  son,  and  vanished  in  a  Scottish  mist.f 

Illustrious  Holland  !  —  hard  would  be  his  lot, 
His  hirelings  mentioned,  and  himself  forgot ! 
Holland,  witli  Henry  Petty  at  his  back. 
The  whipper-in  and  huntsman  of  the  pack. 
Blest  be  the  banquets  spread  at  Holland  House, 
Where  Scotchmen  feed,  and  Critics  may  carouse  ! 
Long,   long  beneath  that  hospitable  roof. 
Shall  Grub  Sireet  dine,  while  duns  are  kept  aloof. 
See  honest  Hallam  lay  aside  his  fork,  530 

Resume  his  pen,  review  his  Lordship's  work, 
And  grateful  to  the  founder  of  the  feast. 
Declare  his  landlord  can  translate  at  least!:]: 
Dunedin  !  view  thy  children  with  delight. 
They  write  for  food,  and  feed  because  they  write : 

*  Mr.  Brougham,  in  No.  XXV.  of  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
view, throughout  the  article  concerning  Don  Pedro  de  Ce- 
vallos,  has  displayed  more  politics  than  policy;  many  of  the 
worthy  Burgesses  of  Edinburgh  being  so  incenstd  at  the 
infamous  principles  it  evinces,  as  to  have  withdrawn  their 
subscriptions. 

It  seems,  that  Mr.  Brougham  is  not  a  Pict,  as  I  supposed, 
but  a  Borderer,  and  his  name  is  pronounced  Broom,  from 
Trent  to  Tay  ;  —  So  be  it. 

■f  I  ought  to  apologise  to  the  worthy  Deities  for  introducing 
a  new  Goddess  with  short  petticoats  to  their  notice ;  but,  alas  ! 
what  was  to  be  done?  I  could  not  say  Caledonia's  Genius, 
it  being  well  known  there  is  no  Genius  to  be  found  from 
Clackinannan  to  Caithness,  yet  without  supernatural  agency, 
how  was  Jeffrey  to  be  saved  ?  The  national  "  Kelpies,"  &c. 
are  too  unpoetical,  and  the  "  Brownies"  and  "  gude  neigh- 
bours," (spirits  of  a  good  disposition)  refused  to  extricate 
him.  A  Goddess,  therefore,  has  been  called  for  the  purpose, 
and  great  ought  to  be  the  gratitude  of  Jeffrey,  seeing  it  is 
the  only  communication  he  ever  held,  or  is  likely  to  hold, 
•with  any  thing  heavenly. 

I  Lord  H.  has  translated  some  specimens  of  Lope  de  Vega, 
inserted  in  his  life  of  the  author ;  both  are  bepraised  by  hh- 
Miinteresled  guests. 


AND  SCOTCH   REVIEWERS.  lOS 

And  lest,   when  heated  with  the  unusual  grape. 

Some  glowing  thoughts  should  to  the  press  escape. 

And  tinge  with  red  the  female  reader's  cheek, 

My  lady  skims  the  cream  of  each  critique  ; 

Breathes  o'er  the  page  her  purity  of  soul,  540 

Reforms  each  error,  and  refines  the  whole.* 

Now  to  the  Drama  turn  —  oh  motley  sight ! 
What  precious  scenes  the  wondering  eyes  invite! 
Puns,  and  a  Prince  within  a  harrel  pent.f 
And  Didbin's  nonsense  yield  complete  content. 
Though  now,  thank  Heaven  !   the  Ilosciomania's  o'er, 
And  full  grown  actors  are  endured  once  more; 
Yet,  what  avails  their  vain  attempts  to  please, 
While  British  critics  sutler  scenes  like  these? 
While  Reynolds  vents  his  — -  "  dammes,  —  poohs,"  and 

"zounds,":|:  550 

And  common  place,  and  common  sense  confounds  ? 
While  Kenny's  World  just  suffered  to  proceed, 
Proclaims  the  audience  very  kind  indeed  ? 
And  BEAUJroNT's  pilfered  Caratach  affords 
A  tragedy  complete  in  all  but  words  ?|| 
Who  but  must  mourn,  while  these  are  all  the  rage, 
The  degradation  of  our  vaunted  stage  ? 
Heavens  !   is  all  sense  of  shame,  and  talent  gone  ? 
Have  we  no  living  Bard  of  merit?  —  none? 
Awake,  George  CoLMAN,  Cujiberland,  awake!  560 

Ring  the  alarum  bell,  let  folly  quake! 
Oh  !    Sheridan  !   if  aught  can  move  thy  pen. 
Let  Comedy  resume  her  throne  again, 
Abjure  the  mummery  of  German  schools, 
Leave  new  Pizarros  to  translating  fools  ; 

*  Certain  it  is,  her  Ladyship  is  susoected  of  having  dfg» 
played  her  matchless  wit  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  —  how- 
ever that  may  be,  we  know  from  good  authority,  thai  the 
manuscripts  are  submitted  to  her  perusal  —  no  doubt  for 
correction. 

■f  In  the  melo-drama  of  Tvkeli,  that  heroic  prince  is 
cl apt  into  a  barrel  on  the  stage,  a  new  asylum  for  distressed 
heroes. 

I  All  these  are  favourite  expressions  of  Mr.  R.  and  pro- 
minent in  his  Comedies,  living  and  defunct. 

II  Mr.  T.  Sheridan,  the  new  Manager  of  Drury-Lane  Thea- 
tre, stripped  the  Tragedy  of  Bonduca,  of  ihe  Dialogue,  and 
exhibited  the  scenes  as  the  spectacles  of  Caractacus.  —  Wai 
this  worthy  of  his  sire?   or  of  himself? 


104  ENGLISH  BARDS, 

Give  as  ihy  last  memorial  to  the  age, 

One  classic  drama,  and   reform  the  stage. 

Gods  !   o'er  ihose  boards  shall  Folly  rear  her  head. 

Where  Garrick  trod,  and  Kemble  lives  to  tread? 

On  those  shall  Farce  display  buffoonery's  mask. 

And  Hook  conceal  his  heroes  in  a  cask?  570 

Shall  sapient  managers  new  scenes  produce 

From  CHERav,  Skeffikgton,  and  Mother  Goose? 

While  SHjiKSPEARE,  Otway,  AIassinger,  forgot, 

On  stalls  must  moulder,  or  in  closets  rot? 

Lo  !    with  what  pomp  the  daily  prim*  proclaim. 

The  rival  candidates  for  Attic  fame  ! 

In  grim  array  tliough  Lewis'  spectres  rise, 

Still  SKEFFiNGTon  and  Goose  divide  the  prize. 

And  sure  great  Skeffington  must  claim  our'praise,  580 

For  Skinless  coats,  and  Skeletons  of  Plays, 

Kenowned  alike,   whose  genius  ne'er  confines 

Her  flight  to  garnish  Greenwood's  gay  designs;* 

Nor  sleeps  wiilj  "  Sleeping  Beauties,"  but  anon 

In  five  facetious  acts  comes  thundering  on,f 

While  poor  John  Bull,  bewildered  with  the  scene, 

Siares,   wondering  what  the  devil  it  can  mean  ; 

But  as  some  hands  applaud,  a  venal  few  ! 

Rather  than  sleep,   why  John  applauds  it  too. 

Such  are  we  now,  ah  !  wherefore  should  we  turn  590 

To  what  our  fathers  were,  unless  to  mourn  ? 
Degenerate  Britons!   are  ye  dead  to  shame, 
Or,  kind  to  dullness,  do  you  fear  to  blame  ? 
Well  may  the  nobles  of  our  present  race 
Watch  eath  distortion  of  a  Naldi's  face  ; 
Well  may  they  smile  on  Italy's  buffoons, 
And  worship  Catalani's  patiialoons,| 
Since  their  own  Drama  yields  no  fairer  trace 
Of  wit  than  puns,  of  humour  than  grimace. 

*  Mr,  Greenwood  is,  we  believe,  Scene-Palntcr  to  Drury 
Lane  Theatre  —  as  such  Mr.  S.  is  much  indebted  to  him. 

+  Mr.  S.  is  the  illustrious  author  of  the  "  Sleeping 
Beauty ;"  and  some  Comedies,  particularly  "  Maids  and 
Bachelors."      Baccalaurei  baculo  magis  quam  lauro  digni. 

\  Naldi  and  Catalani  require  little  notice,  —  for  the 
visage  of  the  one,  and  the  salary  of  the  other,  will  enable  us 
long  to  recollect  these  amusing  vagabonds  ;  besides,  we  are 
still  black  and  blue  from  the  squeeze  on  the  first  night  of  th« 
Lady's  appearance  in  irow^ers. 


AND  SCOTCH   REVIEWERS.  105 

Then  let  Aosonia,  skilled  in  every  art  6C0 

To  soften  manners,   but  corrupt  the  heart. 
Pour  her  exotic  foiiies  o'er  the  town, 
To  sanction  Vice  and   hunt  decorum  down  ; 
Let  wedded  strumpets  lanfjuish  o'er  Deshayes, 
And  l)iess  the  promise  which   his   form  displays; 
While  Gayton  bounds  before  the  enraptured  looks 
Of  hoary  iVIarquisses,  and    stripling  Dukes: 
Let  high-born  Jctcliers  eye  the  lively  Preslk 
Twirl  her  light  limbs  that  spurn  the  needless  veil; 
Let  Angiolinj  bare  her  breast  of  snow,  610 

Wave  the  white  arm  and  point  the  pliant  toe: 
Collini  trill  her  love-inspiring  song. 
Strain  her  fair  neck  and  charm  the  listening  throng  ! 
Raise  not  your  scythe,  Suppressors  of  our  vice  ! 
Reforming  Saints  !   too  delicately  nice  ! 
By  whose  decrees,  our  sinful  souls  to  save. 
No  Sunday  tai.kards  foam,  no  barbers  shave, 
And  beer  undrawn  and  bean's  unniown  display 
Your  holy  rev'rence  for  the  Sabbath-day. 

Or,  hail  at  once  the  patron  and  tire  pile  620 

Of  vice  and  folly,  Greville  and  Argyle!* 
Where  yon  proud  palace,  Fashion's  hallowed  fane,^ 
Spreads  wide  ner  portals  for  the  motley  train. 
Behold  the  new  Pt-tronius-f  of  the  day, 
The  Arbiter  of  pleasure  and  of  play  ! 
There  the  hired  Eunuch,  the  Hesperian  choir, 
The  melting  lute,   the  soft  lascivious  lyie. 
The  song  from  Italy,  the  step  from  France, 
The  midnight  orgy,  and  the  mazy  dance. 

The  smile  of  beauty,  and  the  Hush  of  wine,  630 

For  fops,  fools,  gamesters,  knaves,  and  Lords,  combine  ; 
Each  to  his  humour,  —  Comus  all  allows  ; 
Champaign,  dice,  music,  or  your  neighbour's  spouse. 
Talk    not  to  us,  ye  »taiving  sons  of  trade  ! 
Of  piteous  ruin  which  ourselves  have  made  ; 
In   Plenty's  sunshine  Fortune's  minions  bask, 
Nor  think  of  Poverty,  except   "  en  mastjue," 

*  To  prevent  any  blunder,  such  as  mistaking  a  street  for  a 
man,  I  beg  leave  to  state,  that  it  is  the  Insiiiniion,  and  not 
the  Uuke  of  that  name  which  is  here  alluded  to. 

f  Potronius,  '«  Arbiter  elegantiarum"  to  Nero,  "  and  a 
very  pretty  fellow  in  his  day,"  as  Mr.  Congrevk's  Old 
Bachelor  saitb. 


^0^  ENGLISH  BARDS, 

When  for  the  night  some  lately  titled  ass 

Appears  the  beggar  which  his  grandsire  was. 

The  curtain  dropped,  the  gay  Burietla  o'er,  640 

The  audience  take  their  turn  upon  the  floor: 

Now  round  the  room  the  circling  dow'gers  sweep, 

Now  m  loose  walu  the  thin-clad  daughters  leap  ; 

The  first  in  lengthened  line  majestic  swim, 

The  last  display  the  free,  unfettered  limb : 

Those  for  Hibernia's  lusty  sons  repair 

With  art  the  charms  which  Nature  could  not  spare; 

These  after  husbands  wing  their  eager  flight. 

Nor  leave  much  mystery  for  t!ie  nuptial  night. 

Oh  !  blest  retreats  of  infamy  and  ease  !        »  650 

Where  all  forgotten  but  the  power  to  please, 
Each  maid  may  give  a  loo»e  to  fjenial  thought. 
Each  swain  may  teach  new  systems,  or  be  taught ; 
There  the  blight  youngster,  just  returned  from  Spain, 
Cuts  the  light  pack,  or  calls  the  ratiling  main  ; 
The  jovial  Caster's  set,  and  seven's  the  nick. 
Or  ~  done  !  —  a  thousand  on  the  coming  trick  ! 
If  mad  with  loss,  existence  'gins  to  tire. 
And  all  your  hope  or  wi:.h  is  to  expire. 

Here's  Powell's  pistol  ready  for  your  life.  GGq 

And,  kinder  siiil,  a  Paget  for  your  wife. 
Fit  consummation  of  an  earthly  race 
Begun  in  folly,  ended  in  disgrace. 
While  none  hut  menials  o'er  the  bed  of  death. 
Wash  thy  red  wounds,  or  watch  thy  wavering  breath  j 
Traduced  by  liars,  and  forgot  by  all, 
The  mangled  victim  of  a  drunken  brawl, 
To  live  like  Clodius,*  and  like  Falkland^  fall. 

*  Mutato  nomine  de  te 
Fabula  narraiur. 

f  I  knew  the  late  Lord  Falkland  well.  On  Sunday  nigtit 
I  l)eheid  him  pTs'ding  at  his  owu  table,  in  all  the  honest 
pride  of  hospitality  ;  on  Wednesday  morning  at  three  o' Clock, 
I  saw,  stretched  before  me,  all  that  remained  of  courage, 
feeling,  and  a  host  of  passions.  He  wag  a  gallant  and  suc- 
cessful officer  ;  his  faults  were  the  faults  of  a  sailor;  as  such, 
Britons  will  forgive  them.  He  died  like  a  brave  man  in  a 
better  cause;  for  bad  he  fallen  in  like  manner  on  the  deck  of 
the  frigate  to  which  he  was  just  appointed,  his  last  moments 
would  have  been  held  up  by  his  countrymeu  as  ao  example  to 
succeeJiug  heroes. 


AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  107 

Truth !   rouse  some  genuine  Bard,  and  guide  his  hand 

To  drive  this  pestilence  from  out  the  land.  670 

Even  I  —  least  tbiiiking  of  a  thoughtless  throng, 

Just  skilled  to  know  the  right  and  chuse  the  wrong, 

Freed  at  that  age  when  Reason's  sliield  is  lost. 

To  fight  my  course  through  passion's  countless  host, 

Whom  every  path  of  pleasure's  flowery  way, 

Has  lured  in  turn,  and  all  have  led  astray  — 

E'en  I  must  raise  my  voice,  e'en  I  must  feel 

Such  scenes,  such  men  destroy  the  public  weal; 

Altho'  some  kind,  censorious  friend  will  say, 

*'  What  art   thou   better,  meddling  fool,  than  they?"  680 

And  every  Brother  Rake  will  smile  to  sse 

That  Miracle,  a  Moialist  in  me. 

No  matter  —  when  some  Bard  in  virtue  strong, 

GiFFORD  perchance,  shall  raise  the  chastening  iong. 

Then  sleep  my  pen  for  ever  !  and  my  voice 

Be  only  heard  to  hail  him  and  rejoice  ; 

Rejoice  and  yield  my  feeble  praise,   though  I 

May  feel  the  lash  which  virtue  must  apply. 

As  for  the  smaller  fry,  who  swarm  in  shoals, 
From  silly  Hafiz*  up  to  simple  Bowles,  690 

Why  should  we  call  them  from  their  dark  abode, 
In  broad  St.  Giles's  or  in  Tottenham  Road? 
Or  (since  some  men  of  fashion  nobly  dare 
To  scrawl  in  verse)  from  Bond-street,  or  the  Square  ? 
If  things  of  ton  their  harmless  lays  indite, 
Most  wisely  doomed  to  shun  the  public  sight, 
What  harm  ?  in  spite  of  every  critic  elf. 
Sir  T.  may  read  his  stanzas  to  himself; 
Miles  Andrews  still  his  strength  in  couplets  try, 
And  live  in  prologues,  though  his  dramas  die.  700 

Lords  too  are  Bards  :  such  things  at  times  befal, 
And  'tis  some  praise  in  Peers  to  write  at  all. 
Yet,  did  or  taste  or  reason  sway  ihe  limes, 
Ah  !  who  would  take  their  titles  with  their  rhymes? 
Roscommon  ;   Sheffield  !   wiih  your  spirits  fled, 
No  future  laurels  deck  a  nol)!e  head  ; 
No  Muse  will  cheer  with  renovating  smile, 
I'he  paralytic  puling  of  Carlisle  ; 

*  What  would  be  the  sentiments  of  the  Persian  Anacreon, 
Hafiz,  could  lie  rise  from  his  splendid  sepulchre  at  Sheeraz, 
where  he  reposes  with  Ferdousi  and  Sadi,  the  Oriental 
HoMEK  and  Catullus,  and  behold  his  name  assumed  by  one 
Stott  of  Dromoke,  the  most  impudtnt  and  execrable  of 
literary  poachers  for  the  Daily  Prints  ? 


108  ENGLISH    BARDS, 

The  puny  Schoolboy  and  his  early  lay 

Men  pardon  if  his  follies  pass  away  ;  710 

But  who  forgives  the  senior's  ceaseless  verse. 

Whose  hairs  grow  hoary  as  his  rhymes  arrow  worse? 

M'hat  heterogeneous  honours  deck  the  Peer ! 

Lord,  rhymester,  petit-maitre,  pamphleteer  I* 

So  dull  in  youth,  so  drivelling  in  his  sge, 

His  scenes  alone  had  damned  our  sinking  stage  ; 

But   Managers  for  once  cried,  "  hold,  enough  !" 

Nor  drugged   their  audience  with  the  tragic  stuff. 

Yet  at  their  judgment    let  his  Lordship  laugh, 

And  case  his  volumes  in  congenial  calf.  720 

Yes  !  doff  that  covering  where  Morocco  shines, 

And  hang  a  calf-skin+  on  those  recreant  lines. 

With  you,  ye  Druids  !   rich   in  native  lead, 
Who  daily  scribble  for   your  daily   bread  ; 
With  you  I  war  not :    Gifford's  heavy  hand 
Has  crubhed,  without  remorse,  your  numerous  band. 
On  "  all  the  Talents"  vent   your  venal  spleen, 
Want  your  defence,   let  Pity  be  your  screen. 
Let  Monodies  on    Fox   regale  your  crew. 
And  Melville's  Manile|  prove  a  Blanket  too  !  730 

One  common  Lethe   waits  each   hapless  Bard, 
And  Peace  he  with  you  !    'tis  your  best  reward. 
Such  damning  fame  as  Uunciads  only  give 
Could  bid  your  lines  beyond  a  morning   live  ; 
But  now  at  once  your  fleeting  labours  close. 
With  names  of  greater  note   in  blest  repose. 
Far  be't  from  me  unkindly  to  upbraid 
Tt)e  lovely  Rosa's  Prose  in  Masquerade, 
Whose  sirams,  the  faithful  eciioes  of  her  mind, 
Leave  wondering  comprehension  far  behind.  ||  740 

*  The  Earl  of  Carlisle  has  lately  published  an  eighleen- 
penny  pamphlet  on  the  state  t)f  the  Stage,  and  offers  his  plan 
for  building  a  new  theatre:  it  is  to  be  hoped  his  Lordship  will 
he  permitted  to  bring  any  thing  for  the  Stage,  except  his  own 
tragedies. 

f   "  Dolf  that  lion's  hide: 
*'  And  bang  a  calf-skin  on  those  recreant  limbs." 

Shak.    King  John. 
Lord  C.'s  works,  resplendently  bound,  form  a  conspicuons 
ornament  to  his  book  shelves  : 

<'  The  rest  is  all  but  leather  and  prunella." 
\  Melville's  Mantle,  a  parody  on  "  Elijah's  Mantle."  a 
poem. 

Ij  This  lovely  Utile  Jessica,  the  daughter  of  the  noted  Jew, 


AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  109 

Though  Crusca's  Bards  no  more  our  Journals  fill. 
Some  stragglers  skirmisli  round  their  columns  still ; 
Last  of  the  howling  host  which  once  was  Bell's, 
Matilda  snivels  yet,  and  Hafiz  yells; 
And  Merrf's  metaphors  appear  anew, 
Chain'd  to  the  signature  of  O.  P.  Q,.* 

When  some  brisk  youth,  the  tenant  of  a  stall, 
Employs  a  pen  less  pointed  than  his  awl, 
Leaves  his  snug  shop,  forsakes  his  store  of  shoes, 
St.   Crispin  quit*,  and  cobbles  for  the  Muse,  V50 

Heavens  !  how  tlie  vulgar  stare  !  how  crowds  applaud  ! 
How  ladies  read,  and    Literati  laud  ' 
If  chance  some  wicked  wag  should   pass  his  jest, 
'Tis  sheer  ill-nature;  don't  the  world  know   best? 
Genius  must  guide  when  wits  admire  the  rhyme, 
And  Capel  LoFiif  declares  'tis  quite  sublime. 
Hear,  then,  ye  happy  sons  of  needless  trade! 

Swains  !   quit  the  plough,  resign  the  useless  spade  ; 

Lo  !    Burns  and  Bloomfield,:]:  nay,  a  greater  far, 

GiFFOKD,  was  born  beneath  an  adverse  star,  760 

Forsook  the  labours  of  a  servile  state, 

Stemm'd  the  rude  storm,  and  triumphed  over  Fate. 

Then  why  no  more?    if  Phoebus  smil'd  on   you, 

Bloomfield  !   why  not  on  brother  Nathan  too? 

Him  too  the  Mania,  not  the  Muse,  has  seized  ; 

Not  inspiration,  but  a  mind  diseased.  ~ 

And  now  no  Boor  can  seek  his  last  abode. 

No  common  be  enclosed  without  an  ode. 

Oh  !  since  increased  refinement  deigns  to  smile 

On  Britain's  sons,  and  bless  our  genial  Isle,  770 

Let  Poesy  go  forth,  pervade  the  whole. 

Alike  the  rustic,  and  mechanic  soul  — 

K ,  seems  to  be  a  follower  of  the  Delia  Crusca  School, 

and  has  published  two  volumes  of  very  respectable  absurdi- 
ties in  rhyme,  as  times  go  ;  besides  sundry  novels  in  the  style 
of  the  first  edition  of  the  Monk. 

*  These  are  the  signatures  of  various  worthies  vrbo  figure 
in  the  poetical  departments  of  the  newspapers. 

•j-  Capel  Lofft,  Esq.  the  Maecenas  of  Shoemakers,  and  Pre- 
facewriier-General  to  distressed  versemen  ;  a  kind  of  gratis 
Accoucher  to  those  who  wish  to  be  delivered  of  rhyme,  but  do 
not  know  how  to  bring  it  forth. 

\  Sec  Nathaniel  Bloomfikld's  ode,  elegy,  or  whatever 
else  he  or  any  one  else  chooses  to  call  it,  on  the  enclosure  of 
•'  Honington  Green." 

K 


110  ENGLISH  BARDS, 

Ye  tuneful  cobblers  !  still  your  notes  prolong, 

Compose  at  once  a  slipper  and  a  song ; 

So  shall  the  fair  your  handiwork  peruse  ; 

Your  sonnets  sure  to  please  —  perhaps  your  shoes. 

May  Moorland*  weavers  boast  Pindaric  skill, 

And  tailors'  lays  be  longer  than  their  bill ! 

While  punctual  beaux  reward  the  grateful  notes,  780 

And  pay  for  poems  —  when  they  pay  for  coats. 

To  the  fam'd  throng  now  paid  the  tribute  due, 
Neglected  Genius  let  me  turn  to  you. 
Come  forthj  oh  Campbell  !f  give  thy  talents  scope; 
Who  dares  aspire  if  thou  must  cease  to  hope  ? 
And  thou,  melodious   Rogers!   rise  at  lasty 
Recall  the  pleasing  memory  of  the  past ; 
Arise  !   let  blest  remembrance  still  inspire, 
And  strike  to  wonted  tones  thy  hallowed  lyre! 
Restore  Apollo  to  his  vacant  throne, 

Assert  thy  country's  honour  and  thine  owu,  790 

W'hat?  must  deserted  Poesy  still  weep 
Where  her  last  hopes  with  pious  Cowper  sleep? 
Unless,  perchance,  from  his  cold  bier  she  turns. 
To  deck  the  turf  that  wraps  her  minstrel  Burns  ! 
No  !  tho'  contempt  hath  marked  the  spurious  bruud, 
The  race  who  rhyme  from  folly,  or  for  food  ; 
Y'et  still  some  genuine  sons  'tis  hers  to  boast, 
Who,  least  afiecting,  still  affect  the  most ; 
I'eel  as  they  write,  and  write  but  as  they  feel  — 
13ear  witness  Gifford,  Sothfbv,  and  Mackiel^  800 

*'   Why  slumbers  Gifford?"  once  was  asked  in  vain:|| 
Why  slumbers  Gifford?  let  us  ask  again. 

*  Vide  "  Recollections  of  a  Weaver  in  the  Moorlands  of 
Stafl'ordshire." 

f  It  would  be  superfluous  to  recall  to  the  ri;ind  of  the  rea- 
der, the  author  of  "  The  Pleasures  of  Memory"  and  "  The 
Pleasures  of  Hope,"  the  most  beautiful  Didactic  Poems  in 
our  language,  if  v.e  except  Pope's  Essay  on  Man;  but  so  many 
poetasters  have  started  up,  that  even  the  names  of  Campbell 
aiid  Rogers  are  become  strange. 

^  GiFFOKij,  author  of  the  fiaviad  and  Mafviad,  the  first 
satires  of  the  day,  and  translator  of  Juvenal. 

SoTHEBV,  translator  of  Wieland's  Oberon,  and  Virgil's 
Georgics,  and  author  of   Saul,  an  epic  poem. 

Macneil,  whose  poems  are  deservedly  popular  ;  particu- 
larly "  Scotland's  Scaith,  or  tlie  Waes  of  War,"  of  wbick 
ten  thousand  copies  were  sold  in  one  month. 

ji  Mr.  Gif FORB  promised  publicly  that  the  Baviad  and  Mas- 


AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  Ill 

v\re  there  no  follies  for  his  pen  to  purge  ? 

Are  there  no  fools  whose  backs  demand  the  scourge  ? 

Are  there  no  sins  for  Satire's  Bard  to  greet  ? 

Stalks  not  gigantic  Vice  in  every  street? 

Shall  Peers  or  Princes  tread  pollution's  path, 

And  'scape  alike  ihe  Law's  and  Muse's  wrath? 

Nor  blaze  with  guilty  glare  through  future  time, 

Eternal  beacons  of  consummate  crime?  810 

Arouse  thee,  Giffobd  !   be  thy  promise  claimed, 

Make  bad  men  better,  or  at  least  ashamed. 

Unhappy  White  !*  while  life  was  in  its  spring, 
And  thy  young  Muse  just  waved  her  joyous  wing, 
The  spoiler  came;  and  all  thy  promise  fair 
Has  sought  the  grave,  to  sleep  for  ever  there. 
Oh !   what  a  noble  heart  was  here  undone, 
When  Science  'self  destroyed  her  favourite  son  ! 
Yet!  she  too  much  indulged  thy  fond  pursuit, 
She  sowed  the  seeds,  but  death  has  reaped  the  fruit.  820 

'Twas  thine  own  genius  gave  the  final  blow 
And  helped  to  plant  the  wound  that  laid  thee  low  — 
So  the  struck  Eagle  stretched  upon  the  plain. 
No  more  through  rolling  clouds  to  soar  again. 
Viewed  his  own  feather  on  the  fatal  dart, 
And  winged  the  shaft  that  quivered  in  his  heart. 
Keen  were  his  pangs,  but  keener  far  to  feel 
He  nursed  the  pinion  which  impelled  the  steel, 
While  the  same  plumage  that  had  warmed  his  nest, 
Drank  the  last  life-drop  of  his  bleeding  breast.  830 

There  be,  who  say,  in  these  enlightened  days 
That  splendid  lies  are  all  the  Poet's  praise ; 
That  strained  invention,  ever  on  the  wing. 
Alone  impels  the  modern  Bard  to  sing. 


viad  should  not  be  bis  last  original  works  :  let  him  remember, 
"  Mox  in  reluctante  Dracones." 

•  Henry  Kirke  White,  died  at  Cambridge,  in  October, 
1806",  in  consequence  of  loo  much  exertion  in  the  pursuit  of 
studies  that  would  have  matured  a  mind  which  disease  and  po- 
verty could  not  impair,  and  which  death  itself  destroyed  rather 
than  subdued.  His  poems  abound  in  such  beauties  as  must 
impress  the  reader  with  the  liveliest  regret  that  so  short  a  pe- 
riod was  allotted  to  talents,  which  would  have  dignified  even 
the  sacred  functions  he  was  destined  to  assume. 


112  ENGLISH    BARDS, 

'Tis  true,  that  all  who  rhyme,  nay,  all  who  write. 

Shrink  from  that  fatal  word  to  Genius  —  Trite  ; 

Yet  Truth  sometimes  will  lend  her  noblest  fires, 

And  decorate  the  verse  herself  inspires. 

This  fact  in  Virtue's  name  let  Crabbe  attest. 

Though  Nature's  sternest  Painter,  yet  the   best.  840 

And  here  let  Shee*  and  Genius  find  a  place. 
Whose  pen  and  pencil  yield  an  equal  grace  ; 
To  guide  whose  hand  the  sister  arts  combine, 
And  trace  tlie  Poet's  or  the  Painter's  line ; 
Whose  magic  touch  can  bid  the  canvas  glow, 
Or  pour  the  easy  rhyme's  harmonious  flow, 
While  honours  doubly  merited  attend 
The  Poet's  rival,  but  the  Painter's  friend. 

Blest  is  the  man  !   who  dares  approach  the  bower 
Where  dwelt  the  Muses  at  their  natal  hour  ;  850 

Whose  steps  have  pressed,  whose  eye  has  marked  afar 
The  clime    that  nursed  the  sons  of  Song  and  War, 
The  scenes  which  Glory  still  must  hover  o'er; 
Her  place  of  binh,  her  own  Achaiau  shore. 
But  doubly  blest  is  he,  whose  heart  expands 
With  hallowed  feelings  for  those  classic  lands ; 
Who  rends  the  veil  of  ages  long  gone  by. 
And  views  their  remnants  with  a  poet's  eye  ! 
Wright  !f  'twas  thy  happy  lot  at  once  to  view 
Those  shores  of  glory   and  to  sing  them  too  ;  860 

And  sure  no  common  Muse  inspired  thy  pen 
To  hail  the  land  of  Gods  and  Godlike  men. 

And  you,  associate  Bards,^  who  snatched  to  light 
Those  gems  too  long  withheld  from  modern  sight ; 
Whose  mingling  taste  corabin'd  to  cull  the  wreath 
Where  Attic  flowers  Aonian  odours  breailie, 
And  all  their  renovated  fragrance  flung, 
To  grace  the  beauties  of  your  native  tongue  ; 

*  Mr.  Shee,  author  of  "  Rhymes  on  Art,"  and  "Elements 
of  Art." 

f  Mr.  Wright,  late  Consul- General  for  the  Seven  Islands, 
is  author  of  a  very  beautiful  poem  just  published  ;  it  is  enti- 
tled, "  Horfc  lonicae,"  and  is  descriptive  of  the  Isles  and  the 
adjacent  coast  of  Greece. 

:f  The  translators  of  the  Anthology  have  since  published 
separate  poems  which  evince  genius  that  only  requires  oppor- 
tunity to  attain  eminence. 


SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  113 

Now  let  those  minds  that  nobly  could  transfuse 

The  glorious  spirit  of  the  Grecian  Muse,  870 

Though  soft  the  tcho,  scorn  a  borrowed  tone; 

Resign  Achaia's  lyre  and  strike  your  own. 

Let  these,  or  such  as  these,  with  just  applause, 
Restore  the  Muse's  violated  laws; 
But  not  in  flimsy  Darwin's  pompous  chime, 
That  mighty  master  of  unmeaning  rhyme  ; 
Whose  gilded  cymbals,  more  adorned  than  clear, 
The  eye  delighted  but  fatigued  the  ear, 
In  show  the  simple  lyre  could  once  surpass, 
But  now  worn  down,  appear  in  native  brass  ;  880 

While  all  his  train  of  hovering  sylphs  around, 
Evaporate  in  similies  and  sound  : 
Him  let  them  shun,  with  him  let  tinsel  die  — 
False  glare  attracts,  but  more  ofiends  the  eye.* 

Yet  let  them  not  to  vulgar  Wordsworth  stoop 
The  meanest  object  of  the  lowly  group  ; 
Whose  verse  of  all  but  childish  prattle  void,  . 
Seems  blessed  harmony  to  Lajibe  and  Lloyd. j- 
Let  thein  —  but  hold,  my  Muse,  nor  dare  to  teach 
A   strain,  far,  far  beyond  thy  humble  reach  ;  890 

The  native  genius  with  iheir  feeling  given 
Will  point  the  path,  and  peal  their  notes  to  heaven. 

And  thou,  too,   Scott  If  resign  to  minstrels  rude 
The  wilder  Slogan  of  a  Border  feud. 
Let  others  spin  their  meagre  lines  for  hire; 
Enough  for  Genius  if  itself  inspire  ! 
Let  SouTHEY  sing,  although  his  teeming  muse. 
Prolific  every  spring,  be  too  profuse  ; 
Let  simple  Wordjwokth  chime  bis  childish  verse, 
And  brother  Coleridge  lull  the  babe  at  nurse;  9Z0 

Let  Spectre-mongering  Lewis,  aim  at  most, 
To  rouse  the  Galleries,  or  to  raise  a  ghost ; 

♦  The  neglect  of  the  "  Botanic  Garden,"  is  some  proof  of 
returning  taste;  the  scenery  is  is  sole  recommendaiion. 

■f  Messrs.  Lajibe  and  Lloyd,  the  most  ignoble  followers  of 
Southey  and  Co. 

^  By  the  bye,  I  hope  that  in  Mr,  Scott's  nest  poem  his 
hero  or  heroine  will  be  less  addicted  to  "  Gramarye,"  and 
niore  to  Grammar,  than  the  Lady  of  the  Lay,  and  her  Bravo, 
William  of  Deloraine. 

k2 


114  ENGLISH  BARDS 

Let  Moore  be  lewd,    let  Strangford  steal  from  Moore  ; 

And  sivear  that  Camoens  sang  such  notes  of  yore; 

Let  Hayley  bobble  on  ;   Montgojiery  rare  ; 

And  godly  Grahame  chaunt  a  stupid  stave  ; 

Let  sonnetteering  Bowles  his  strains  refine, 

And  whine  and  whimper  to  the  fourteenth  line  ; 

Let  Stotx,   Carlisle,  Matilda,  and  the  rest 

Of  Grub-street,  and  of  Grosvenor-place  the  best,  910 

Scrawl  on,  'till  death  release  us  from  the  strain, 

Or  common  sense  assert  her  rights  again  ; 

But  Thou,  with  powers  that  mock  the  aid  of  praise, 

Shouldst  leave  to  humbler  Bards  ignoble  lays  — 

Thy  Country's  voice,  the  voice  of  all  the  Nine, 

Demand  a   hallowed  harp  —  that  harp  is  thine. 

Say  !   will  not  Caledonia's  annals  yield 

The  glorious  record  of  some  nobler  field, 

Than  the  vile  foray  of  a   plundering  clan, 

Whose  proudest  deeds  disgrace  the  name  of  man  ?  920 

Or  Marmion's  acts  of  darkness,   fitter  food 

For  outlawed  Sherwood's  tales  of  Robin   Hood? 

Scotland  !  still  proudly  claim  thy  native  Bard, 

And  be  thy  praise  his  first,   his  best  reward  ! 

Yet  not  with  thee  alone  his  name  should  live. 

But  own  the  vast  renown  a  world  can  give  ; 

Be  known,  perchance,   when   Albion  is  no  more, 

And  tell  the   tale  of  what  she  was  before  ; 

To  future  times  her  faded  fame  recall, 

And  save  her  glory,  though  his  Country  fall.  930' 

Yet  what  avails  the  sanguine  Poet's  hope 
To  conquer  ages,  and  with  lime  to  cope  ? 
New  eras  spread  their  wings,  new   nations  rise. 
And  other  Victors*  fill  the  applauding  skies  j 
A  few  brief  generations  fleet  along, 
"Whose  sons  forget  the  Poet  and  his  song  — 
E'en  now  what  once  loved  Minstrels  scarce  may  claim 
The  transient  mention  of  a  dubious  name  ! 
When  Fame's  loud  trump  hath  blown  its  noblest  blast, 
Though  long  the  sound  the  echo  sleeps  at   last,  940' 

And   Glory,  like  the  Phoenix   'midst  lier  fires, 
Exhales  her  odours,  blazes,  and  expires. 

Shall  hoary  Granta  call  her  sable  sons 
^Expert  in  science,  more  expert  at  puns  ? 

*  "  Tollers  humo,  \ictorquc  virum  volitare  per  ora." 

VlRGU.. 


\ 


AND   SCOTCH   REVIEWERS.  115 

Shall  these  approach  the  Muse  ?  ah  no  !  she  flies, 

And  even  spurns  the  great  Seatonian  prize, 

Though  Printers  condescend  the  press  to  soil 

With  rhyme  by  Hoare,  and  Epic  blank  by — Hoyle  : 

Mot  him  whose  pa^e,  if  slill   upheld  oy  whist, 

Requires  no  sacred  theme  to   bid  us  list,*  950 

Ye!  who  in  Granta's  honours  would  surpass 

Must  mount  her  Pegasus,  a  full-grown  ass  ; 

A   foal  well  worthy  of  her  antient  dam, 

Whose  Helicon  is  duller  than  her  Cam. 

There  Clarke,  still  striving  piteously  "  to  please," 
Forgetting  doggrel  leads  not  to  degrees, 
A  would-be  Satirist,  a  hired  buffoon, 
A  monthly  scribbler  of  some  low  lampoon. 
Condemned  to  drudge,  the  meanest  of  the   mean. 
And  furbish  falsehoods  for  a  magazine,  960 

Devotes  to  scandal  his  congenial  mind  ; 
Himself  a  living  libel  on  mankind,f 

Oh  dark  asylum  of  a  Vandal  race  l^ 
At  once  the  boast  of  learning,   and  disgrace; 
So  sunk  in  dullness  and  so  lost  in  shame 
That  Smythe  and  Hodgson |!  scarce  redtem  thy  famef 

*  The  •'  Games  of  Hoyle,"  well  known  to  the  votaries  of 
Whist,  Chess,  &c.  are  not  to  be  superseiled  hy  the  vagaries  of 
his  poetical  namesake,  whose  poem  comprised,  as  expressly 
staled  in  the  advertisement,  all  the  "  Ph.gucb  of  Egypt," 

f  This  person  who  has  lately  betrayed  tlie  most  rapid  symp- 
toms of  confirmed  authorship,  is  writer  of  a  poem  denominated 
the  "  Art  of  Pleasing,"  as  "  Lucus  a  non  lucendo,"  con- 
taining little  pleasantry,  and  less  poetry.  He  also  acts  as 
monthly  stipendiary  and  collector  of  caluninits  for  the  Satirist. 
If  this  unfortunate  young  man  would  excliaiige  the  magazines 
for  the  mathematics,  and  endeavour  to  take  a  decent  degree 
in  his  University,  it  mijjht  eventually  prove  more  serviceable 
than  his  present  salary. 

I  »'  Into  Cambridgeshire  the  Emperor  Probus  transported 
a  considerable  body  of  Vandals." — Gibl)on's  Decline  and 
Fall,  page  83,  vol.  2.  There  is  no  reason  to  doubt  the  trutb 
of  this  assertion,  the  breed  is  still  in  high  perfection. 

II  This  gentleman's  name  requires  no  praise  ;  the  man  who 
in  translation  displays  unquestiouable  genius,  may  well  be  ex- 
pected to  excel  in  original  composition,  of  which  ii  is  to  be 
hoped  we  ihall  toon  see  a  splendid  specimen. 


116  ENGLISH    BARDS, 

But  where  fair  Isis  rolls  her  purer  wave, 

J'he  partial  Muse  delighted  loves  to  lave, 

On  her  green  banks  a  greener  wreath  is  wove, 

I'o  crown  the  Bards  thut  haunt  her  clas^ic  grove.  970 

Where  Richards  wakes  a  genuine  poet's  fires, 

And  modern  Britons  justly  praise  their   Sires.* 

For  me,  who  thus  unasked  have  dared  to  tell 
My  country  what  her  sons  should  know  too  well, 
Zeal  for  her  honour  bade  me  here  engage 
The  host  of  idiots  that  infest  her  age. 
No  just  applause  her  honoured  name  shall  lose, 
As  first  in  fieedom,  dearest  to  'he    Muse. 
Oh  !  would  thy  Bards  but  emulate  thy  fame. 
And  rise,  more  woitliy^  Albion,  of  thy  name  !"  080 

\\  hat  Athens  was  in  science,  Uoaie  in  power, 
What  Tyre  appeared  in  her  meridian  hour, 
'Tis  thine  at  once,  fair  Albion,  to  have  been, 
£arth's  chief  dictatress,  Ocean's  mighty  queen  : 
But  Rome  decayed,   and  Athens  strewed  the  plain. 
And  Tyre's  [jroud  piers  lie  shattered   in  the  main  ; 
Like  these  thy  streugtli  may  sink  in    ruin  hurled, 
And  Britain  fall,   the  bulwark  of  the  World. 
But  let  me  cease,  and  dread   Cassandra's  fate, 
With  warning  ever  ever  scoffed  at,  'till  loo  late,  9&0 

To  themes  less  lofty  still  iny  lay  confine. 
And  urge  thy  Bards  to  gain  a  name  like  thine. 

Then  hapless  Britain  !    be  thy  rulers  blest ! 
The  Senate's  oracles,  the  people's  jest  ; 
Still   hear  thy  moiley  orators  dispense 
The  flowers  of  rhetoric,  though  not  of  sense, 
While  Canning's  colleagues  hate  hitn  for  his  wit. 
And  old  dame  FoKTLANDf  fills  the  place  of  Pitt. 

Yet  once  again  adieu  !  ere  this  the  sail 
That  wafts  me  hence  is  shivering  in  the  gale-  1000 

And    Afric"s  coast  and  Calpe't|  adverse  height. 
And  Stambour>|{  minarets  must  greet  my  sight. 

,   The  "  Aboriginal  Britons,"  an  excellent  poem  by  Rich- 

AKllS. 

f-    A  friend  of  mine  being  asked  why  his  Grace  of    P.  was 
likened  to  an  old  woman?  replied,   "  he  supposed  it  was   be- 
cause he  was  past  beating." 
'"    I  Calpe  is  tlie  antient  name  of  Gibraltar. 

II  Slamboul  u  the  Turkish  word  for  Constantinople. 


AND  SCOTCli  REVIEWERS.  117 

Thence  shall  I  stray  through   Beauty's*  native  clime, 

Where  Kafff  is  clad  in  rocks,  and  crown'd  with  snowg  sublime. 

But  should  I   back  return,  no  letter'd  rage 

Shall  drag  my  common-place  book  on  the  stage. 

Let  vain  Valentia^  rival  luckless  Carr, 

And  equal  him  whose  vvorks  be  sought  to  mar  ; 

Let  Aberdeen  and  Elgin§   still  pursue 

The  shade  of  fame  through  regions  of  Vertu  ;  1010 

Waste  useless  thousands  on  their  Phidian  freaks, 

Mis-shapen  monuments  and  maimed  antiques; 

And  make  their  grand  saloons  a  general  mart 

For  all  ihe  mutilated  blocks  of  art. 

Of  Dardan  tours  let  Dilettanti  tell, 

I  leave  topography  to  classic  Gell  ;^ 

And,  quite  content,  no  more  shall  interpose 

To  stun  mankind  with  Poesy  or  prose. 

Thus   far  I've  held  my  undisturbed  eareer,  1020 

Prepared  for  rancour,  steel'd  'gainst  selfish  fear  : 

This  thing  of  rhyme  I  ne'er  disdained  to  own  — 

Though  not  obtrusive,  yet  not  quite  unknown, 

My  voice  was  heard  again,  though  not  so  loud, 

My  page,  though  nameless,  never  disavovjed, 

And  now,  at  once  I  tear  the  veil  away  ; 

Cheer  on  the  pack  !  the  Quarry  stands  at  bay, 

Unscar'd  by  all  the  din  of  Melbourne  House, 

By  Lambe's  resentment,  or  by  Holland's  spouse. 

By  Jeffrey's  harmless  pistol,    Hallam's  rage, 

Euina's  brawny  sons  and  brimstone  page.  1030 

*  Georgia,  remarkable  for  the  beauty  of  its  inhabitants. 

f   Mount  Caucasus. 

\  Lord  Valentia  (whose  tremendous  travels  are  forth- 
coming  with  due  decorations,  graphical,  topographical,  arid 
typographical)  deposed,  on  Sir  John  Carr's  unlucky  suit, 
that  Dubois'  satire  prevented  his  purchase  of  the  "  Stranger 
in  IreUnd."— Oh,  fie,  my  Lord  !  has  your  Lordship  no  more 
feeling  for  a  fellow -tourist  ?  but  "  two  of  a  trade,"  they  say, 
&c.  &c. 

§  Lord  Elgin  woultl  fain  persuade  us  that  all  the  figures, 
with  or  without  noses,  in  his  slone  shop,  are  the  work  of  Phi- 
dias !    "   Credat  Judaeus!" 

^  Mr.  Gell's  I'opography  of  Troy  and  Ithaca,  cannot  fail 
to  ensure  the  approbation  of  every  man  possessed  of  classi- 
cal taste,  as  well  for  the  information  Mr.  G.  conveys  to  the 
mind  of  the  reader,  as  for  the  ability  and  research  his  respec- 
tive works  display. 


118  ENGLISH    BARDS,  &c. 

Our  men  in  Buckram  shall  have  blows  enough, 

And  feel,  they  too,  are  '•  penetrable  stuff;'* 

And  though   I  hope  not  hence  unscath'd   to  go, 

Who  conquers  me  shall  find  a   stubborn  foe. 

The  time  hath  been  vf  hen  no  harsh  sound  would  fall 

From  lips  that  now  may  seem  imbued  with  gall, 

Nor  fools  nor  follies  tempt  me  to  despise 

The  meanest  thing  that  crawled  beneath  my  eyes; 

But  now,  so  callous  grown,   so  chann'd  since  youth, 

I've  learned  to  think,  and  sternly  speak  the  truth  ;  1040 

Learned  to  deride  the  critic's  starch  decree, 

And  break  him  on  the  wheel  he  meant  for  me ; 

To  spurn  the  rod  a  scribbler  bids  me  kiss, 

Nor  care  how  courts  and  crowds  applaud  or  hiss  : 

Nay  more,  though   all   my  rival  rhymesters  frown, 

I  too  can  bunt  a  poetaster  down  ; 

And,  arm'd  in  proof,  the  gauntlet  cast  at  once 

To  Scotch  marauder  and  to  Southern  dunce, 

Thus  much  I've  dared  to  do  ;  how  far  my  lay 

Hath  wronged  those  righteous  times  let  oihers  say  ;  1050 

This,   let  the  world,  which  knows  not  how  to  spare, 

Yet  rarely  blames  unjustly,  now  declare- 


IKD  or    ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


PREFACE 


TO 


CIIILDE   HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


I  have  now  waited  till  almost  all  our  periodical  journals  Lave 
distributed  their  usual  portion  of  criticism.  To  the  justice  ot  the 
p^enerality  of  their  criticisms  I  have  nothina;  to  object ;  it  woukl 
ill  become  me  to  quarrel  with  their  very  slijrht  degree  of  cen- 
sure, when,  perhaps,  if  they  had  been  less  kind  they  liad  been 
more  candid.     Returning,  therefore,  to  all  and  each  my  best 
thanks  for  their  liberality,  on  one  point  alone  shall  I  venture 
an  observation.     Amongst  the  many  objections  justly  urged  to 
the   very   iiidillerent  character  of   tie   "  vagrant   ChiJde^' — 
(whom,  notwithstanding  many  hints  to  the  contrarj-,  I  still 
maintain  to  be  a  fictitious  personage) — it  has  been  stated,  that 
besides  the  anachronism,  he  is  very  unknightly,  as  tlie  times 
of  the  knights  were  times  of  love,  honor,  and  soi'orth.     Now 
it  so  happens,  that  tlie  good  old  times,  when  "  Vumour  da  Ion 
vietijo  tons,  Vaiiimir  antif/ue"  flourished,  were  the  most  profli- 
gate of  all  possible  centuries.     Those  who  liave  any  doubts  on 
this  subject  may  consult  St.  Palaye,  passi)n,  and  more  particu- 
larly vol.  11.  p.  09.     The  vows  of  chivalry  were  no  belter  kept 
than  any  other  vows  whatsoever,  and  the  songs  of  the  Trouba- 
dours were  not  more  decent,  and  certainly  were  much  less  re- 
fined, than  those  of  Ovid.     The  "  fours  iVumour,  purlemens 
d'unviur,  on  de  courtesie  et  de  geidilesse,'"  had   much   more 
of  love  than  of  courtesy  or  gentleness.     See  Holland   on  the 
same  subject  with  Palaye.— VVhatever  other  objection  may  be 
urged  to  that  most  unamiable  personage  Childe  Harokl,  he  was 
so  far  perfectly  knightly  in  liis  attributes— "  No  waiter,  but  a 
kuight  templar."*    JJy  the  by,  I  fear  that  Sir  Tristram  and  Sir 

•  The  Rovers  Anlijacobin. 


122  PREFACE. 

Lancelot  were  no  better  than  they  should  be,  aKhough  very 
poetical  personages,  and  true  knights  "  mns  pair."  though 
\  not  "  sans  reprocke." — If  the  story  of  the  institution  of  the 
"  Garter"  be  not  a  fable,  the  knights  of  that  order  have  for 
several  centuries  borne  the  badge  of  a.Countess  of  Salisbury  of 
indiiierent  memory.  So -much  i'or  chivalry.  Burke  need  not 
have  regretted  that  its  days  are  over,  though  Maria  Antoinette 
was  quite  as  chaste  as  most  of  those  in  whose  honors  lances 
were  shivered,  and  knights  imhorsed. 

Before  tlie  days  of  Bayard,  and  down  to  those  of  Sir  Joseph 
Banks  (the  most  chaste  and  celebrated  of  ancient  and  modern 
limes),  few  exceptions  will  be  found  to  this  statement,  and  I 
fear  a  little  investigation  will  teach  us  not  to  regret  these 
monstrous  mummeries  of  the  middle  ages. 

I  now  leave  "  Childe  Harold"  to  live  h\)i  day,  such  as  be  is  : 
it  had  been  more  agreeable,  and  certainly  more  easy,  to  have 
di'awn  an  amiable  character,  ft  ^ad  been  easy  to  varnish  over 
Ills  faults,  to  make  him  do  more  and  express  less ;  but  he  never 
was  intended  as  an  example,  further  than  to  shew,  that  early 
perversion  of  mind  and  morals  leads  to  satiety  of  past  plea- 
sures, and  disappointment  in  new  ones ;  and  that  even  the 
beauties  of  nature,  and  the  stimulus  of  travel,  (except  ambi- 
tion, the  most  powerful  of  all  excitements)  are  lost  on  a  soul 
so  constituted,  or  rather  misdirected.  Had  I  proceeded  with 
the  poem,  this  character  would  have  deepened  as  he  drew  to 
the  close  ;  for  the  outline  which  I  once  meant  to  fill  up  for 
him,  was,  with  some  exceptions,  the  sketch  of  a  modern  Timoii, 
perhaps  a  poetical  Zeluco. 


TO  lANTHE. 


Not  in  those  climes  where  I  have  late  been  straj  inp, 
Though  Beauty  there  long  hath  been  matchless  deemed  ; 
Not  in  those  visions  to  the  heart  displaying 
Forms  which  it  sighs  but  to  have  only  dreamed, 
Hath  aught  like  thee  in  truth  or  fancy  seeme-d  : 
Nor,  having  seen  thee,  shall  I  vainly  seek 
To  paint  those  charms  which  varied  as  they  beamed — 
To  such  as  see  thee  not  my  words  were  weak ; 
To  those  who  gaze  on  thee  what  language  could  they  speak  ? 

Ah  !  may'st  thou  ever  be  what  now  thou  art, 
Nor  unbeseem  the  promise  of  thy  spring, 
As  fair  in  form,  as  warm  yet  pure  in  heart, 
Love's  image  upon  earth  without  his  wing, 
And  guileless  beyond  Hope's  imagining  ! 
And  surely  she  who  now  so  fondly  rears 
Thy  youth,  in  thee,  thus  hourly  brightening 
Beholds  the  rainbow  of  her  future  years, 
Before  whose  heavenly  hues  all  sorrow  disappears. 

Young  Peri  of  the  West ! — 'tis  well  for  me 
My  years  already  doubly  numlier  thine  ; 
My  loveless  eye  unmoved  maj'  gaze  on  thee. 
And  safely  view  thy  ripening  beauties  shine  ; 
Happy,  I  ne'er  shall  see  them  in  decline — 
Happier,  that  while  all  younger  hearts  shall  bleed, 
Mine  shall  escape  the  doom  thine  eyes  assign 
To  those  whose  admiration  shall  succeed, 
But  mixed  with  pangs  to  Love's  even  loveliest  hour*  decreed. 


12 1  TO  lANTIIE. 

Oh  !  let  that  eye,  which,  wild  as  the  Gazelle's, 
Now  brightly  bold  or  beautifully  shy, 
Wins  as  it  wanders,  dazzles  where  it  dwells, 
fi  lance  o'er  this  page— nor  to  my  verse  deny 
That  smile  for  which  my  verse  niitjht  vainly  ligh. 
Could  I  to  thee  be  ever  more  than  friend: 
This  much,  dear  maid,  accord  ;  nor  question  why 
To  one  so  young  my  strain  I  would  commend, 
But  bid  me  with  my  wreath  one  matchless  lily  blend. 

Such  is  thy  name  with  this  my  verse  entwined  ; 
And  long  its  kinder  eyes  a  look  shall  cast 
On  Harold's  page,  Jantlie's  here  enshrined 
Shall  thus  be  first  behehl,  forgotten  la«t ; 
My  days  once  numbered,  should  this  homage  past 
Attract  tliy  fairy  fingers  near  the  lyre 
Of  him  who  hailed  thee,  loveliest  as  thou  wast. 
Such  Is  the  most  my  memorj-  may  desire  ; 
Though  more  than  Hope  can  claim,  could  Friendship  le** 
require  ? 


A    llOMAUNT. 


CANTO    I. 


Oh,  thou  !  in  Hollas  ileenied  of  hoav'niy  birth, 
Muse!   formeii  or  lableil  111  llio   minstril's  will ! 
Since  shnmed  full  oil  by  later  lyres  on  earth, 
Mine  dares  not  call  thee  from  tliy  sacred  hill  : 
Yet  there  I've  ■wnndered  by  thy  vaunted  rill  ; 
Yes  I  sijfhed  o'er  Delphi's  lonjx  deserted  shrine,  ( 1 ) 
Where,  save  that  feeble  fountain,  all  is  still ; 
Nor  mote  my  shell  awake  the  wear>  Nine 
To  grace  so  plain  a  tale — this  lowly  lay  of  mine. 

II. 

Whilome  in  Albion's  isle  there  dwelt  n  youth, 
>S'ho  ne  in  virtue's  ways  did  take  didiiiht ; 
But  spent  his  days  in  riot  most  uncouth, 
And  vexed  with  mirth  the  drowsy  ear  of  Nighl. 
Ah,  me  !   in  sooili  he  was  a  shameless  wight. 
Sore  given  to  revel  and  ungodly  glee  ; 
Fe\T  earthly  thmgs  louiul  favour  in  his  sight 
Save  concubines  and  CiiTunl  companie. 
And  flauuling  wiissailers  of  high  luid  low  degree. 

III. 
riiilde  Harold  was  he  liight : — but  whence  his  name 
wVnd  lineage  long,   it  suits  me  not  to  saj  ; 
Suffice  it,  that  perchance  they  were  of  fame, 
And  had  been  glorious  in  another  day  : 
But  one  sad  losel  soils  a  name  lor  aye. 
However  mighlx  in  the  olden  time  ; 
Nor  all  that  Heralds  rake  from  cotlined  clay, 
Nor  Horid  prose,  nor  honied  lines  of  rhyme, 
Cuu  blazon  evil  deeds,  or  consecrate  a  crmre. 

L   2 


126  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

IV. 

Clulde  Harold  basked  him  in  the  noon-tide  sun, 
Disporting  there  lilce  any  other  fly  ; 
Nor  deemed  before  his  little  day  was  done 
One  blast  might  chill  him  into  misery. 
But  long  ere  scarce  a  third  of  his  passed  by, 
Worse  tlian  adversity  the  Childe  befell ; 
He  telt  the  fulness  of  satiety  : 
Then  loathed  he  in  his  native  land  to  dwell, 
Which  seemed  to  him  more  lone  than  Eremite's  sad  cell. 

V. 
For  he  through  Sin's  long  labyrinth  had  run. 
Nor  made  atonement  when  he  did  amiss. 
Had  sigh'd  to  many,  though  he  loved  but  one. 
And  tliat  lov'd  one,  alas  !  could  ne'er  be  "his. 
Ah,  happy  she  !  to  'scape  from  him  whose  kiss 
Had  been  pollution  unto  aught  so  chaste  ; 
Who  soon  had  left  her  charms  for  vulgar  bliss, 
Aud  spoiled  her  goodly  lands  to  gild  his  waste. 
Nor  calm  domestic  peace  had  ever  deigned  to  taste. 

VI. 
And  now  Childe  Harold  was  sore  sick  at  heart. 
And  from  his  fellow  bacchanals  would  flee  ; 
'Tis  said,  at  times  the  sullen  tear  would  start, 
But  pride  congealed  the  drop  within  his  ee  : 
Apart  he  stalked  in  joyless  reverie. 
And  from  his  native  land  resolved  to  go. 
And  visit  scorching  climes  beyond  the  sea  ; 
With  pleasure  drugged  he  almost  long'd  for  woe, 
And  e'eu  lor  change  of  scene  would  seek  the  shades  below. 

vir. 

The  Childe  departed  from  his  father's  hall : 
It  was  a  vast  and  venerable  pile  ; 
So  old,  it  seemed  only  not  to  fail. 
Yet  strength  was  pillared  in  each  massy  aisle. 
Monastic  dome  I  condemned  to  uses  vile  ! 
Where  Superstition  once  had  made  her  den 
Now  Paphiaii  girls  were  known  to  sing  and  smile; 
And  monks  mic;ht  deem  their  time  was  come  agen. 
If  ancient  tales  say  true,  nor  wrong  these  holy  rnen. 

vnr. 

Yet  oft  times  in  his  maddest  mirthful  mood 

Strange  pangs  would  flash  across  Childe  Harold's  brow, 

As  il   the  memory  of  some  deadly  feud 

Or  disappointed  passion  lurked  below: 

But  this  none  kuew,  nor  haply  cared  to  know  ; 


PII.GRTMAnF,.  J27 

For  his  was  not  that  open,  artless  soul 
That  feels  relief  by  bidding  sorrow  flow  ; 
Nor  sought  he  friend  to  counsel  or  condole, 
Whate'er  his  grief  mote  be,  which  he  could  not  controul. 

IX. 
And  none  did  love  him— though  to  hall  and  bower 
He  gathered  revellers  from  far  and  near, 
He  knew  them  ilatt'rers  of  the  lestal  hour  ; 
The  heartless  parasites  of  present  cheer. 
Vea!  none  did  love  him — not  his  lemans  dear — 
But  pomp  and  power  alone  are  woman's  care, 
And  where  these  are  light  Eros  finds  a  feere  ; 
Maidens,  like  mollis,  are  ever  caught  by  glare, 
And  Mammon  wins  his  way  where  Seraphs  might  despair. 

X. 

Childe  Harold  had  a  mother — not  forgot, 
Though  parting  from  that  mother  he  did  shun  ; 
A  sister  whom  he  loved,  but  saw  her  not 
Before  his  weary  pilgrimage  begun  : 
If  friends  he  had,  he  bade  adieu  to  none. 
Yet  deem  not  thence  his  breast  a  breast  of  steel  ; 
Ye,  who  have  known  what  His  to  doat  upon 
A  few  dear  objects,  will  in  sadness  feel 
Such  partings  break  the  heart  they  fondly  hope  to  heal. 

XL 

His  house,  his  home,  his  heritage,  his  lands. 
The  laughing  dames  in  whom  he  did  delight, 
Whose  large  blue  eyes,  fair  locks,  and  snowy  hands 
Might  shake  the  saintship  of  an  anchorite. 
And  long  had  fed  his  youthful  appetite  ! 
His  goblets  brimmed  with  every  costly  wine, 
And  all  that  mote  to  luxury  invite, 
Without  a  sigh  he  left,  to  cross  the  brine. 
And  traverse  Paynim  shores,  and  pass  Earth's  central  line. 

XII. 

The  soils  were  filled,  and  fair  the  light  winds  blew, 
As  glad  to  waft  him  from  his  native  home; 
And  last  the  white  rocks  faded  from  his  view. 
And  soon  were  lost  in  circumambient  foam  ; 
And  tiien,  it  may  be,  of  his  wish  to  roam 
Repented  he,  but  in  his  bosom  slept 
The  silent  thought,  nor  from  his  lips  did  come 
One  word  of  wail,  whilst  others  sate  and  wept. 
And  to  the  reckless  gales  unmanly  moaning  kept. 

XIII. 
But  when  the  sun  was  sinking  iu  the  sea, 
He  seized  his  harp,  which  he  at  times  could  itring. 


128  rHTLDK    HAROLD'S 

And  strike  albeit  with  untaught  melody, 
When  deemed  he  no  strange  ear  was  listening  : 
And  now  his  finger*  o'er  it  he  did  fling. 
And  tuned  his  farewell  in  the  dim  twilight. 
While  flew  the  vessel  on  her  snowy  wing, 
And  fleeting  shores  receded  from  his  sight, 
Thus  to  the  elements  he  poured  his  last  "  Good  Night. 

1. 

"  Adieu,  adieu  !  my  native  shore 

Fades  o'er  the  waters  blue  ; 
The  Night-winds  sigh — the  breakers  roar, 

And  shrieks  the  wild  seamew. 
Yon  Sun  th;rt  sets  upon  the  sea 

We  follow  in  his  flight ; 
Farewell  awhile  to  him  and  thee. 

My  native  Land — Good  Night ! 

2. 

"  A  few  short  hours  and  He  will  rise 

To  give  the  Morrow  birth  ; 
And  I  shall  hail  the  main  and  skies, 

But  not  my  mother  Earth. 
Deserted  is  my  own  good  hall. 

Its  hearth  is  desolate  ; 
Wild  weeds  are  gathering  on  the  wall ; 

My  dog  howls  at  the  gate. 


"  Come  hither,  hither,  my  little  page  ! 

Why  dost  thou  weep  and  wail  ? 
Or  dost  thou  dread  the  billow's  rage, 

Or  tremble  at  the  gale  ? 
But  dash  the  tear-drop  from  thine  eye  ; 

Our  ship  is  swift  and  strong  : 
Our  fleetest  fakoln  scarce  can  fly 

More  merrily  along." 


<'  Let  winds  be  shrill,  let  waves  roll  high, 

I  fear  not  wave  nor  wind  ; 
Yet  marvel  not,  Sir  Childe,  that  T 

Am  sorrowful  in  mind  ; 
For  I  have  from  my  fatlier  gone, 

A  mother  whom  I  love. 
And  have  no  frieml,  save  these  alone,. 

But  thee — and  one  above. 


PILGRIMAGE.  129 


"  My  falber  blessed  me  fervently, 

Yet  did  not  much  complain  ; 
But  sorely  will  my  mother  sigh 

Till  I  come  back  again." — 
"  Enough,  enough,  my  little  lad  ! 

Such  tears  become  thine  eye  ; 
If  I  thy  guileless  bosom  had 

Mine  own  would  not  be  dry. 

6. 

"  Come  hither,  hither  my  staunch  yeoman 

AVhy  dost  thou  look  so  pale  ? 
Or  dost  thou  dread  a  French  foeman  ? 

Or  shiver  at  the  gale  ?" — 
"  Deem'st  thou  I  tremble  for  my  life  ? 

Sir  Childe,  I'm  not  so  weak  ; 
But  thinking  on  an  absent  wife 

Will  blanch  a  faithful  cheek. 

1. 

"My  spouse  and  bo3-s  dwell  near  thy  hall, 

Along  the  bordering  lake, 
And  when  they  on  their  father  call. 

What  answer  shall  she  make  ?" — 
"  Enough,  enough,  my  yeoman  good, 

Thy  grief  let  none  gainsay  ; 
But  I,  who  am  of  lighter  mood, 

Will  laugh  to  flee  away. 

8. 

"  For  who  would  trust  the  seeming  sighs 

Of  wife  or  paramour  ? 
Fresh  feres  will  dry  the  bright  blue  eyes 

We  late  saw  streaming  o'er. 
For  pleasures  past  I  do  not  grieve. 

Nor  perils  gathering  near ; 
My  greatest  grief  is  that  I  leave 

No  thing  that  claims  a  tear. 

9. 

*  And  now  I'm  in  the  world  alone. 

Upon  the  wide,  wide  sea  : 
But  why  should  I  for  others  groan. 

When  none  will  sigh  for  me  ? 
Perchance  my  dog  will  whine  in  vain, 

Till  fed  by  stranger  hands ; 


130  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

But  long  ere  I  come  back  ngain, 
He'd  tear  me  where  he  stands. 

10. 

"  With  thee,  m}'  bark,  I'll  swiftly  go 

Athwart  the  foaming  brine  ; 
Nor  care  what  land  thou  bear'st  me  to, 

So  not  again  to  mine. 
Welcome,  welcome,  ye  dark  blue  waves ! 

And  when  you  fail  my  sight, 
Welcome  j'e  deserts  and  ye  caves  ! 

My  native  Land — Good  Night !" 

XIV. 
On,  on  the  vessel  flies,  the  land  is  gone, 
And  winds  are  rude  in  Biscay's  sleepless  l^iy. 
Four  days  are  sped,  but  with  the  fil'th,  anon. 
New  shores  descried  make  every  bosom  gay  ; 
And  Cintra's  mountain  greets  them  on  their  way, 
And  Tagus  dashing  onward  to  the  deep. 
His  fabled  golden  tribute  bent  to  pay  ; 
And  soon  on  board  the  Lusian  pilots  leap, 
And  steer  'twixt  fertile  shores  where  yet  few  rustics  reap. 

XV. 

Oh,  Christ !  it  is  a  godly  sight  to  see 
What  Heaven  hath  done  for  this  delicious  land  ! 
What  fruits  of  fragrance  blush  on  every  tree  ! 
What  godly  prospects  o'er  the  hills  expand  ! 
But  man  would  mar  them  with  an  impious  hand : 
And  when  the  Almighty  lifts  his  fiercest  scourge 
'Gainst  those  who  most  transgress  his  high  command. 
With  treble  vengeance  will  his  hot  shafts  urge 
Gaul's  locust  host,  and  earth  from  fellest  foemen  purge. 

XVL 

What  beauties  doth  Lisboa  first  unfold ! 
Her  image  floating  on  that  noble  tide. 
Which  poets  vainly  pave  with  sands  of  gold, 
But  now  whereon  a  thousand  keels  did  ride 
Of  mighty  strength,  since  Albion  was  allied. 
And  to  the  Lusians  did  her  aid  afford  : 
A  nation  swoln  with  ignorance  and  pride, 
Who  lick  yet  loathe  the  hand  that  waves  the  sword 
To  save  them  from  the  wrath  of  Gaul's  unsparing  lorA 

XVH. 

But  whoso  enterefh  within  this  town. 
That,  sheening  far,  celestial  seems  to  be, 
Disconsolate  will  wander  up  and  down, 


PILGRIxMAGE.  131 

'Mid  many  things  unsisbtly  to  strange  ee  ; 
For  hut  and  palace  show  like  filthily  : 
The  dingy  denizens  are  reared  in  dirt ; 
Ne  personage  of  high  or  mean  degree 

Doth  care  lor  cleanness  of  surtout  or  shirt,  [unhurt, 

Though    shent  with   Egjpt's  plague,    unkempt,    ujiwashed. 

XVIII. 
Poor,  paltry  slaves  !  yet  born  'midst  noblest  scenes — 
Why,  Nature,  waste  thy  wonders  on  such  men  ? 
Lo  !   Cinlra's  glorious  Eden  intervenes 
In  variegated  maze  of  mount  and  glen. 
Ah,  me  !  what  hand  can  pencil  guide,  or  pen, 
To  follow  half  on  which  the  eye  dilates 
Through  views  more  dazzling  unto  mortal  ken 
Than  those  whereof  such  things  the  bard  relates, 
AVhoto  the  awe-struck  world  unlocked  Elysium's  gates? 

XIX. 
The  horrid  cratrs,  by  toppling  convent  crowned  ; 
The  cork-trees'hoar   that  cloathe  the  shaggy  steep. 
The  mounl:un  moss  by  scorching  skies  imbrowned, 
The  sunken  glen,  whose  sunless  shrubs  must  weep. 
The  tender  azure  of  the  unruffled  deep. 
The  orange  tints  that  gild  the  greenest  bough. 
The  torrents  that  from  clill"  to  valley  leap, 
The  vine  on  high,  the  willow  branch  below, 
Mixed  in  one  mighty  scene,  with  varied  beauty  glow. 

XX. 
Then  slowly  climb  the  many-winding  way. 
And  Irequent  turn  to  linger  as  you  go. 
From  loltier  rocks  new  loveliness  s\ivTey, 
And  rest  ye  at  our  "  Lady's  house  of  woe  ;"  (2) 
Where  frugal  monks  their  little  relics  show. 
And  sundry  legends  to  the  stranger  tell : 
Here  impiovis  men  have  punished  been,  and  lo  ! 
Deep  in  yon  cave  llonoiius  long  did  dwell, 
In  hope  to  merit  Heaven  by  making  earth  a  Hell. 

XXI. 

And  here  and  there  as  up  the  crags  you  spring, 
Murk  many  rude-carved  crosses  near  the  path  : 
Yet  deem  not  these  devotion's ollering  — 
TBose  are  memorials  frail  of  murderous  wrath  ;  _ 
For  wheresoe'er  the  jhrieking  victim  hath 
I'oured  forth  his  blood  beneath  the  assassin's  knife, 
Some  hand  erects  a  cross  of  mouldering  lath ; 
And  grove  and  glen  with  thousand  such  are  rife 
Throughoul this  purple  land,  where  law  secures  not  lif«.  (i) 


132  CIIILDE   HAROLD'S 

XXII. 

On  sloping  mounds,  or  in  the  vale  beneath, 
Are  domes  where  whilome  kings  did  make  repair  ; 
But  now  tlie  wild  flowers  round  tiiem  only  breathe  ; 
Yet  ruined  splendor  still  is  lingering  there. 
And  yoiidar  towers  the  Prince's  palace  fair  : 
There  thou  too,  V'athek  !    England's  wealtliiest  son. 
Once  formed  thy  Paradise,  as  not  aware 
Vv'hen  wanton  wealth  her  mightiest  deeds  hath  done, 
Meek  Peace  voluptuous  lures  was  ever  wont  to  shun. 

XXIII. 
Here  didst  thou  dwell,  here  schemes  of  pleasure  plan. 
Beneath  yon  mountain's  ever  beauteous  brow  : 
But  now,  as  if  a  thing  unblest  by  Man, 
Thy  fairy  dwelling  is  as  lone  as  tJiou  !       «• 
Here  giant  weeds  a  passage  scarce  allow- 
To  hails  deserted,  portals  gaping  wide  : 
Fresh  lessons  to  the  tliinking  bosom,  how 
Vain  are  the  pleasaunces  on  earth  supplied  ; 
Swept  into  wrecks  anon  by  Time's  ungentle  tide ! 

XXIV. 

Behold  the  hall  where  chiefs  were  late  convened  !  (4) 
Oh  !  dome  displeasing  unto  British  eye  ! 
With  diadem  hight  foolscap,  lo  !   a  fiend, 
A  little  fiend  that  scofls  incessantlj-. 
There  sits  in  parchment  robe  arrayed,  and  by 
His  side  is  hung  a  seal  and  sable  scroll, 
Where  blazoned  glare  names  known  to  chivalry. 
And  sundry  signatures  adorn  the  roll, 
Where  at  the  Urchin  points  and  laughs  with  all  his  soul. 

XXV. 

Convention  is  the  dwarfish  demon  st3'led 
That  foiled  the  knights  in  Marialva's  dome  : 
Of  brains  (if  brains  they  had)  he  them  beguiled, 
And  turned  a  nation's  shallow  joy  to  gloom. 
Here  Folly  dashed  to  earth  the  victors  plume, 
And  policy  regained  what  arms  had  lost : 
For  chiefs  like  ours  in  vain  may  laurels  bloom! 
Woe  to  the  conqu'ring,  not  the  conquered  host, 
Since  balTled  Triumph  droops  on  Lusitania's  coast ! 

XXVI. 

And  ever  since  that  martial  synod  met, 

Britannia  sickens,  Cintra,  at  thy  name  ; 

And  folks  in  office  at  the  mention  fret. 

And  fain  would  blush,  if  blush  they  could,  for  shame. 

How  will  posterity  the  deed  proclaim  I 


\  PILGRIMAGE.  ISS 

Will  not  our  own  and  fellow-nalions  sneer, 
To  view  these  champions  cheated  of  their  lame, 
By  foes  in  fight  o'ertlirown,  yet  victors  here. 
Where  Scorn  her  finger  points  through  many  a  coming  year  ? 

XXVII. 

So  deemed  the  Childe,  as  o'er  the  mountains  lie 

Did  take  his  way  in  solitary  guise  : 

Sweet  was  the  scene,  yet  soon  he  thought  to  flee. 

More  restless  than  the  swallow  in  the  skies: 

Though  here  awhile  he  learned  to  moralise, 
For  Meditation  fixed  at  times  on  him  ; 
And  conscious  Reason  whispered  to  despise 
His  early  youth,  misspent  in  maddest  whim  ; 
But  as  he  gazed  on  Truth  his  aching  eyes  grew  dlin. 

XXVIII. 

To  horse  !  to  horse  !  he  quits,  for  ever  quits 
A  scene  of  peace,  though  soothing  to  his  soul : 
Again  he  rouses  from  his  moping  fits, 
But  seeks  not  now  the  harlot  and  the  bowl. 
Onward  he  flies,  nor  fixed  as  yet  the  goal 
Where  he  shall  rest  him  on  his  pilgrimage  ; 
And  o'er  him  many  changing  scenes  must  roll 
Ere  toil  Tiis  thirst  for  travel  can  assuage, 
Or  he  shall  calm  his  breast,  or  learn  experience  sage. 

XXIX. 

Yet  Mafra  shall  one  moment  claim  delay,  (5) 
Where  dwelt  of  yore  the  Lusian's  luckless  queen  ; 
And  church  and  court  did  mingle  their  array. 
And  mass  and  revel  were  alternate  seen  ; 
Lordlings  and  freres — ill-sorted  fry  I  ween ! 
But  here  the  Babylonian  whore  hath  built 
A  dome,  where  flaunts  she  in  such  glorious  sheen, 
That  men  forget  the  blood  which  she  hath  spilt, 
And  bow  the  knee  to  Pomp  that  loves  to  varnish  guilt. 

XXX. 
O'er  vales  that  teem  with  fruits,  romantic  hills, 
(Oh,  that  such  hills  upheld  a  freeborn  race  !) 
Whereon  to  gaze  the  eye  with  joyaunce  fills, 
Childe  Harold  wends  through  many  a  pleasant  place. 
Though  sluggards  deem  it  but  a  foolish  thase, 
And  marvel  men  should  quit  their  easy  chair, 
The  toilsome  way,  and  long,  long  league  to  trace, 
Oh  !  there  is  sweetne?;s  in  the  mountain  air, 
And'life,  that  bloated  Ease  can  never  hope  to  share. 

XXXI. 
More  bleak  to  view  the  hills  at  length  recede. 
And,  less  luxuriant,  smoother  vales  extend: 

M 


134  CHILDE    HAROLD'S 

Immense  horison-bounded  pliiins  succeed  I 
Fat  iis  the  e)e  discerns,  willioutcn  end, 
Spain's  realms  appear  wiiereoii  lier  sJiepherds  tend 
Flocks,  wJiose  rich  fleece  right  well  the  trader  knows — 
Now  must  the  pastor's  arm  his  lambs  delend  : 
For  Spain  is  compassed  bj'  unyielding  loes, 
And  all  must  shield  their  all,  or  share  Subjeotion's  woes. 

XXXII. 

Where  Lusitania  and  her  sister  meet. 

Deem  ye  what  bounds  the  rival  realms  divide  ? 

Or  ere  the  jealous  queens  of  nations  great, 

Doth  Tayo  interpose  his  mighty  tide? 

Or  dark  Sierras  rise  in  craggy  pride  ? 

Or  fence  of  art,  like  China's  vasty  wall  ? — 

Ne  barrier  wail,  ne  river  deep  and  wide, 

Ne  horrid  crags,  nor  mountains  dark  and  tall. 

Rise  like  the  rocks  that  part  Hispania's  land  from  Gaul. 

XXXIII. 
But  these  between  a  silver  streamlet  glides. 
And  scarce  a  name  dislinguisheth  the  brook, 
Though  rival  kingdoms  press  its  verdant  sides. 
Here  leans  the  idle  shepherd  on  hit  crook. 
And  vacant  on  the  rippling  waves  doth  look  ; 
That  peaceful  still  'twixt  bitterest  loemen  flow  ; 
For  proud  each  peasant  as  the  noblest  duke  ; 
Well  doth  the  Spani>h  hind  the  ditterence  know 

»Twi.\t  bmi  and  Lusiun  slave,  the  lowest  ol  the  low.  (fl) 

XXXIV. 
But  e'er  the  mingling  bounds  have  far  been  passed 
Dark  Guadiana  rolls  his  power  along 
In  sullen  billows  murmuring  and  vast. 
So  noted  ancient  rouialelays  among. 
Whilome  upon  his  bunks  did  legions  throng 
(Ji  Moor  and  knieht,  in  mailtO  .'plendour  dresf : 
Here  ceased  the  swilt  their  race,  here  sunk  the  strong  ; 
The  Paynim  turban  and  the  Christian  crest 

Mixed  on  the  bleeding  stream,  by  floating  hosts  opprefcsttd. 

XXXV. 
Oh,  lovely  Spain  !  renowned,  romantic  land  ! 
Where  is  that  standard  which  Pelagio  bore. 
When  Cava's  traitor-sire  first  called  the  baud 
That  dyed  thy  mountain  streams  with  Gothic  gore  ?  (") 
Where  arc  1l;ose  bloody  banners  which  of  yoie 
Waved  o'er  thy  sons,  victorious  to  the  gale, 
And  drove  at  last  the  siioilers  to  tl»eir  shore  ? 
Red  gleamed  tfie  cross,  and  waned  the  crescent  pale. 

While  Allies  acUoes  Ihrillid  with  Moorish jnation*'  vyail. 


/  PIJ.GRIMAGE.  13» 

XXXVI. 

Teems  not  each  ilitty  with  tlie  glorious  talc? 
^h!  s«ich,  alas!  the  hero's  amplest  iate! 
When  granite  moulders  €-ind  when  records  fail, 
A  peasant's  plaint  prolongs  his  dubious  date. 
Pride  !  bend  thine  eye  from  heaven  to  thine  estate  : 
See  how  the  Mighty  shrink  into  a  song  ! 
Can  Volume,  Pillar,  Pile  preserve  thee  great? 
Or  must  thou  trust  Tradition's  simple  tongue. 
When  Fhittery  sleeps  with  thee,  and  history  does  thee  wrong? 

XXXVII. 

Awake,  ye  sons  of  Spain  !  awake  !  advance  f 

'    Lo  !  chivahy,  your  ancient  goddess,  cries. 
But  wields  not,  as  of  old,  her  thirsty  lance, 
Nor  shakes  her  crimson  plumage  iti  the  skies : 
Now  on  the  smoke  of  blazing  bolts  she  flies. 
And  speaks  in  thunder  through  yon  engine's  roar? 
In  every  peal  she  calls — "  Awake  !   arise  '." 
Say,  is  her  voice  more  feeble  than  of  yore, 

When  her  war-song  was  heard  on  Andalusia's  shore  ? 

xxxviir. 

Hark  !  — heard  you  not  those  hoofs  of  dreadful  note  ? 
Sounds  not  the  clang  of  conflict  on  the  heath  ? 
Saw  ye  not  whom  the  reeking  sabre  smote  ; 
Nor  saved  your  brethren  ere  they  sank  beneath 
Tyrants  and  tyrants'  slaves  ? — the  fires  of  death, 
Tlie  bale-fires  flash  on  high  ; — from  rock  to  rock 
Each  volley  tells  that  thousands  cease  to  breathe  ; 
Death  rides  upon  the  sulphury  Siroc, 
lied  Buttle  stamps  his  foot,  and  nations  feel  the  shock. 

xxxix. 

I>o  !  where  the  Giant  on  the  mountain  stands, 
His  blood-red  tresses  deep'ning  in  tlie  sun, 
With  death-shot  glowing  in  his  fiery  hands, 
And  eye  that  scorchelh  all  it  glares  upon  ; 
Ilestless  it  rolls,  now  fi.ved,  and  now  tmon 
Flashing  afaf, — and  at  liis  iron  feet 
Destruc'tion  cowers  to  mark  what  deeds  are   done  : 
For  on  this  morn  three  pnteiit  nations  meet, 
To  shed  before  his  ghrine  the  blood  he  deems  most  sweet. 

XL. 

By  Heaven  !  it  is  a  splendid  sight  to 'see 

{For  one  who  hath  »o  I'riend,  no  brother  there) 

Their  rival  scarfs  of  mixed  eml)rc»idecy, 

Their  various  arms  that  glitter  in  the  air! 

What  gallant  war-hounds  rouse  them  from  their  Iitir, 

And  gnaslj  their  lmig<,  louit  yelling  for  the  pit*y ! 


136  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

All  join  the  chase,  but  few  the  triumph  share ; 
The  (Jrave  shall  bear  the  chiele.st  jiri/e  away, 
And  havoc  scarce  tor  joy  can  number  Iheir  array. 

XLI. 
Tliree  hosts  combine  to  oiler  sacrifice  ; 
Three  lontjues  |)reler  strange  orisons  on  high  ; 
Three  gaucty  standards  flout  the  pale  blue  skies  5 
The  shouts  are — I'rance,  Spain,  Albion,  Victory  ! 
The  loe,  the  victim,  and  the  fond  ally 
That  fights  lor  all,  but  ever  fights  in  vain. 
Are  met — as  if  at  liume  they  could  not  die — 
To  feed  the  crow  on  Talavera's  plain. 
And  fertilize  the  field  that  each  pretends  to  gain. 

XLII. 

There  shall  they  rot — Ambition's  honoured  fools  ! 
Yes,  Honour  decks  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay  ! 
Vain  Sophistry  !   in  these  behold  the  tools. 
The  broken  tools,  that  tyrants  cast  away 
iiy  myriads,  wiien  they  dare  to  pave  their  way 
With  human  hearts — to  what? — a  dream  alone. 
Can  despot*  comp;iss  aught  that  hails  their  sway  ? 
Or  call  with  truth  one  span  of  earth  their  own. 
Save  that  wherein  at  last  they  crumble  bone  by  bone  ? 

XLiir. 

Oh,  Albnern  I  glorious  field  of  grief ! 
As  o'er  thy  (tlain  the  pilgrim  pricked  his  steed, 
Who  could  loresee  Ihee  in  a  space  so  brief, 
A  scene  where  mingling  foes  should  boast  and  bleed  ! 
Peace  to  the  perished  I  may  the  warrior's  meed 
And  tears  of  triumph  their  reward  prolong  ! 
Till  others  fall  where  other  chieftains  lead 
Thy  name  shall  circle  round  the  gaping  throng, 
And  shine  in  worthless  lays,  the  theme  of  transient  song! 

XLIV. 

Enough  of  Battle's  minions !  let  them  play 
Their  game  of  lives,  and  barter  breath  for  fame  : 
Fame  that  will  scarce  reanimate  their  clay, 
Though  thousands  fall  to  deck  some  single  name. 
Jn  sooth  'twere  sad  to  thwart  their  noble  aim 
W^ho  strike,  blest  hirelings  !    for  their  country's  good, 
And  die,  that  living  might  have  proved  her  shame  ; 
Perished,  perchance,  in  some  domestic  feud^ 
Or  in  a  narrower  sphere  wild  Rapine's  path  pursued. 

XLV. 
Full  swiftly  Harold  wends  his  lonely  way 
Where  proud  Sevilla  triumphs  unsubdued  : 
Yet  is  she  free — the  spoiler's  wished-for  prey  ? 


'  PILGRIMAGK.  127 

Soon,  soon  shall  Conquest's  fiery  foot  intrude, 
Blackening  her  lovely  ilonies  with  traces  rtnle. 
Inevitable  hour  !    '(laitist  late  to  strive 
Where  Desolation  plants  her  I'amislied  brooil, 
Is  vain  :  or  Ilion,  Tyre  mia^ht  yet  survive, 

And  Virtue  vanquish  all,  and  Mtirder  cease  to  thrive. 

XLVI. 
But  all  unconscious  ol'  t^)e  coming  doom, 
The  feast,  the  song,   the  revel  here  abounds; 
Strange  modes  of  merriment  the  hours  consume, 
Nor  bleed  tbese  patriots  with  their  country's  wound*  : 
Not  here  War's  clarion,  but  Love's  rebeck  sounds  : 
Here  Folly  still  his  votaries  enthralls  ; 
And  young-eyed  Lewdness  walks  her  midnight  rounds: 
Girt  with  the  silent  crimes  of  Capitals, 

Still  to  the  last  kind  Vice  clings  to  the  tottering  walls. 

XLVII. 

Not  so  the  rustic — with  his  trembling  mate 
He  lurks,  nor  casts  his  heavy  eye  afar. 
Lest  he  should  view  his  vinejard  desolate, 
Blasted  below  the  dun  hot  breath  ol  war. 
No  more  beneath  soft  Eve's  consenting  star 
Fandango  twirls  his  jocund  caslanet : 
Ah,  monarchs  !  could  ye  taste  the  mirth  ye  mar. 
Not  in  the  toils  of  glory  would  ye  fret ; 
The  hoarse,  dull  drum  would  sleep,  and  Man  be  hnppy  yet ! 

XLVIIL 

How  carols  now  the  lusty  muleteer? 
Of  love,  romance,  devotion  is  his  lay. 
As  whilome  he  was  wont  the  leagues  to  cheerr 
His  quick  bells  wildly  jingling  on  the  way? 
No  !  as  he  speeds  he  chaunts  "  Viva  el  Rey  !"  (8) 
And  checks  his  song  to  execrate  Godoy, 
The  royal  wittol  Charles,  and  curse  tike  day 
When  first  Spain's  queen  beheld  the  black-eyed  boy,- 
And  gore-faced  Treason  sprung  irom  her  adulterate  joy.- 

XLIX. 

On  yon  long,  level  plain,  at  distance  crowned 
With  crags,  whereon  tho.se  Moorish  turrets  re.ft, 
Wide  scatlereil  hoof-marks  dint  the  wounded  ground;: 
And  'scathed  by  fire,  the  green  sward's  darkened  vest 
Tells  that  the  foe  was  Andalusia's  guest  : 
Here  was  the  camp,  the  watch-llame,  and  the  host — • 
Here  the  bold  peasant  stormed  the  dr;tgon's  nest ; 
Still  does  he  mark  it  wiih  triumphant  boai»t, 
And  points  to  yonder  clills,  which  oft  were  won  and  lost. 

L. 
And  wliomsoe'pr  along  the  path  vou  meet 

M  -2 


138  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

Bears  in  liis  cap  tlie  baclcfe  of  crimson  hue. 

Which  tells  you  whom  to  shun  and  whom  to  greet  :  (9) 

AVoe  to  the  man  that  walks  in  public  view 

Without  ol  loyaltj'  this  token  true  : 

Sharp  is  the  knife,  and  sudden  is  the  stroke  ; 

And  sorely  would  the  Gallic  foeman  rue, 

If  subtle  poniards,  wrapt  beneath  the  cloak. 
Could  blunt  the  sabre's  edge,  or  clear  the  cannon's  smoke. 

LI. 

At  every  turn  Morena's  dusky  height 

Sustains  aloft  the  battery's  iron  load  ; 

And,  far  as  mortal  eye  can  compass  sight, 

The  mountain-howitzer,  the  broken  road, 

Tlie  bristling  palisade,  the  fosse  o'er-flowed. 
The  stationed  bands,  tlie  never-vacant  watch. 
The  magazine  in  rocky  durance  stow'ed,  » 
The  bolstered  steed  beneath  the  shed  of  thatch. 
The  ball-piled  pyramid,  the  ever  blazing  match,  (10) 

LII. 
Portend  the  deeds  to  come  : — but  he  whose  nod 
Has  tumbled  feebler   despots  from  their  sway, 
A  moment  pauseth  ere  he  lifts  the  rod  ; 
A  little  moment  deigneth  to  delay  : 
Soon  will  his  legions  sweep  through  these  their  way  j 
The  West  must  own  the  Scouvger  of  the  world- 
Ah  !  Spain  !  how  sad  will  be  thy  reckoning-day. 
When  soars  Gaul's  \'idture,  with  his  wings  unfurled. 
And  thou  shall  view  thy  sons  in  crowds  to  Hades  hurled. 

LNI. 

And  must  they  fnll  ?  the  young,  the  proud,  the  brave, 
To  swell  one  bloated  Chief's  unwholesome  reign  ? 
No  step  between  submission  and  a  grave  ? 
The  rise  of  rapine  and  the  fall  of  Spain  ? 
And  doth  the  Power  that  man  a<lores  ordain 
Their  doom,  r.or  heed  the  suppliant's  ajipeal  ? 
Is  all  that  desperate  Valour  acts  in  vain  ? 
And  Counsel  (iaije,  and  patriotic  Zeal, 
The  Veteran's  skill,  Youth's  fire,  and  Manhood'sbeartof  steel 

LIV. 

Is  it  for  this  the  Spanish  maid,  aroused, 
HaiiiTs  on  the  willow  her  unstrung  guitar, 
And,  all  unsexed,  the  Anlace  liatli  espoused. 
Sung  the  loud  song,  and  dared  tlie  deed  of  war  ? 
And  she,  whom  mice  the  semblance  of  a  scar 
Appalled,  an  ovclel's  laruni  chilled  with  dread. 
Kow  views  the  column-scattering  bay'jiet  jar. 
The  falchion  flash,  and  o'er  the  yet  warm  dead 
Stallis  with  Minerva's  step  where  Mars  might  quake  to  tread. 


\      >  PILGRIMAGE  139 

LV. 

Ye  who  shall  marvel  when  j  ou  hear  her  tale, 
Oh  !   hail  you  known  her  in  her  solter  hour, 
Marked  her  black  eye  that  mocks  her  coal-black  veil, 
Heard  her  light  lively  tones  in  Lady's  bower. 
Seen  her  long  locks  that  foil  the  painter's  power, 
Her  lairy  form,  with  more  than  female  grace. 
Scarce  would  you  deem  that  Saragoza's  tower 
Beheld  her  smile  in  Danger's  Gorgon  face, 
Thiu  the  closed  ranks,  and  lead  in  Glory's  learful  chase. 

LVI. 
Her  lover  sinks— she  sheds  no  ill-timed  tear ; 
Her  chief  is  slain— she  fills  his  fatal  post ; 
Her  fellows  flee— she  checks  their  base  career  ; 
The  foe  retires—she  heads  the  sallying  host  : 
Who  can  appease  like  her  a  lover's  ghost  ? 
Who  can  avenge  so  well  a  leader's  fall  ? 
What  maid  retrieve  when  man's  flushed  hope  is  lost  ? 
Who  hang  so  fiercely  on  the  flying  Gaul, 
Foiled  by  a  woman's  hand,  before  a  battered  wall  ?  (11 ) 

LVII. 
Yet  are  Spain's  maids  no  race  of  Amazons, 
But  formed  for  all  the  witching  arts  of  love  : 
Though  thus  in  arms  they  emulate  her  sons, 
And  in  the  horrid  phalanx  dare  to  move, 
'Tis  but  the  tender  fierceness  of  the  dove 
Pecking  the  hand  that  hovers  o'er  her  mate  : 
In  softness  as  in  firmness  far  above 
Remoter  females,  famed  for  sickening  prate ; 
Her  mind  is  nobler  sure,  her  charms  perchance  as  great. 

LVIIL 
The  seal  Love's  dimpling  finger  hath  impressed 
Denotes  how  soft  that  chin  which  bears  his  touch  :  (12) 
Her  lips,  whose  kisses  pout  to  leave  their  nest. 
Bid  man  be  valiant  ere  he  merit  such  : 
Her  glance  how  wildly  beautiful !   how  much 
Hath  Phoebus  wooed  in  vain  to  spoil  her  cheek. 
Which  glows  yet  smoother  from  his  amorous  clutch  ! 
Who  round  the  North  for  paler  dames  would  seek  ? 
How  poor  their  forms  appear  !   how  languid,  wan,  and  weak  ! 

LIX. 
Jklatch  me,  ye  climes !  which  poets  love  to  laud  ; 
Match  me,  ye  harams  of  the  land  !  where  now 
I  strike  my  strain,  far  distant,  to  applaud 
Beauties  that  ev'ii  a  cynic  must  avow  ; 
Match  me  those  Houries,  whom  ye  scarce  allow 
To  taste  the  gale  lest  Love  should  ride  the  wind, 


140  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

Wlih  Spain's  dark-glancinjo:  daughters— deipfti  to  know, 
Tbere  your  wise  Propiiet's  paradise  we  find, 
His  black-eyed  maids  of  Heaven,  angelically  kind. 

LX. 

Oh,  thou  Parnassus  !  (13)  whom  I  now  survey, 
Not  in  the  phrenzy  of  a  dreamer's  eye. 
Not  in  the  fabled  landscape  of  a  lay. 
But  soaring  snow-clad  through  thy  native  sky, 
In  the  wild  pomp  of  mountain  majesty ! 
What  marvel  if  I  thus  essay  to  sing? 
The  numblest  of  thy  pilgrims  passing  by 
Would  gladly  woo  thuie  Echoes  with  his  string. 
Though  from  thy  heights  no  more  one  muse  will  ware  ht»r 
wing. 

LXI. 

Oft  have  I  dreamed  of  Thee!  whose  glorious  name 
Who  knows  n^t,  knows  not  man's  diviuest  lore  : 
And  now  I  view  thee,  'tis,  alas  !   with  shame 
That  I  in  feeblest  accents  must  adore. 
When  I  recount  thy  worshippers  of  yore 
I  tremble,  and  can  only  bend  the  knee ; 
Nor  raise  my  voice,  nor  vainly  dare  to  soar, 
But  gaze  beneath  tiiy  cloudy  canopy 
III  silent  joy  to  think  at  last  I  look  on  Thee  ? 

LXII. 

Happier  in  this  than  mightiest  bards  have  been. 
Whose  fate  to  distant  homes  confined  their  lot. 
Shall  I  urmioved  behold  the  hallowed  scene> 
Which  others  rave  of,  though  Ihey  know  it  not  ? 
Though  here  no  more  Apollo  haunts  his  grot, 
And  thou,   the  nmses'  seat,  art  now  their  grave. 
Some  gentle  Spirit  still  pervades  the  spot. 
Sighs  in  the  gale,  keeps  silence  in  the  cave. 
And  glides  with  glassy  foot  o'er  yon  melodious  Wave. 

LXIII. 

Of  thee  hereafter. — Even  amidst  my  strain 
I  turned  aside  to  pay  my  homage  here  ; 
Forgot  the  land,  the  sons,  the  maids  of  Spain  ; 
Her  fate  to  every  freeborn  bosom  dear. 
And  hailed  thee,  not  perchance  without  a  tear. 
Now  to  my  theme — but  from  thy  holy  haunt 
Let  me  some  remnant,  some  memorial  tear; 
Yield  me  one  leaf  of  Daphne's  deathless  plant, 
Nor  let  thy  votary's  hope  be  deenaed  an  idle  vaunt. 

LXIV. 
But  ne'er  didst  thou,  fair  Mount !  when  fJreece  was  yoaiig^ 
See  round  thy  giant  base  a  brighter  choir. 


'  PILGRIMAGE.  HI 

Nor  e'er  did  Delphi  when  her  priestess  sunp 
The  Pythian  hymn  with  more  than  mortal  fire. 
Behold  H  train  more  fitting  to  inspire 
The  song  of  love,  than  Andalusia's  maids, 
Nurst  in  the  glowijig  lap  of  soft  desire : 
Ah  !  that  to  these  were  given  such  peaceful  shades 
As  Greece  can  still  bestow,  though  Glory  flj  her  glades. 

LXV. 

Fair  is  the  proud  Seville,  lei  her  country  boast 
Her  strength,  herwealth,  her  site  of  ancient  days;  (14) 
But  Cadiz,  rising  on  the  distant  coast. 
Calls  lorth  a  sweeter,  though  ignoble  praise. 
Ah,  Vice!  how  soft  are  thy  voluptuous  ways  ! 
While  boyish  blood  is  mantling  who  can  'scape 
The  fascination  of  thy  magic  gaze  ? 
A  cherub-liydra  round  us  dost  thou  gape, 
And  mould  to  every  taste  thy  dear  delusive  shape. 

LXVI. 

When  Paphos  fell  by  Time — accursed  Time  ! 
The  queen  who  conquers  uU  must  yield  to  thee— 
The  Pleasures  lied,  but  sought  as  warm  a  clime  ; 
And  Venus,  constant  to  her  native  sea, 
To  nought  else  constant,  hither  deigned  to  flee  ^ 
And  fixed  her  shrine  within  these  walls  of  white  : 
Though  not  to  one  dome  circumscribethshe 
Her  worship,  but,  devoted  to  her  rite, 
A  thousand  altars  rise,  lor  ever  blazing  bright. 

LXVII. 
From  morn  till  night,  from  night  till  startled  Mora 
Peeps  blushing  on  the  Revels  laughing  crew, 
The  song  is  heard,  the  rosy  garland  worn, 
Devices  quaint,  and  frolics  evernev*', 
Tread  on  each  others  kibes.     A  long  adieu 
lie  bids  to  sober  joy  that  here  sojourns  : 
Nought  interrupts  the  riot,  though  in  lieu 
Of  true  devotion  monkish  incence  burns, 
And  Love  and  Prayer  unite,  or  rule  the  hour  by  turns. 

LXVIII. 
The  sabbath  comes,  adayof  blessedrest; 
What  hallows  it  ui)on  this  Christian  shore  ? 
Lo  !   it  is  sacred  to  a  solemn  feast : 
Hark  !   heard  you  not  the  forest-monarch's  roar  ? 
Crashing  tlie  lance,  he  snulls  the  spouting  gore 
Of  man  and  steed,  o'erthrown  beneath  his  (lorn  ; 
The  thronged  Aienashukes  with  shouts  for  more  ; 
Yells  the  nuid  crowd  o'er  entrails  freshly  torn, 
Nor  shrinks  the  female  eye,  nor  ev'n  ullects  to  mourn. 


142  eHILDE  HAROLD'S 

LXIX. 

The  st'veiitli  iluy  this  :  the  Jubi>ee  of  niMii. 
Lomloii  .'   right  well  Ihoii  know'st  the  day  of  prayer 
Then  fhy  spruce  citizen,  washed  artizan, 
And  siniin;  apprentice,  gulp  their  weekly  air  : 
Tiij-  coacii  of  Hackiiej-,  whiskey,  one-horse  chair, 
And  humblest  gig  through  sundry  suburbs  whirl, 
To  Hampstead,  lireiitlord,  Harrow,  make  repair  ; 
Till  the  tired  jade  the  wheel  forgets  to  hurl, 
Provoking  envious  jibe  from  each  pedestrian  churl. 

LXX. 

Some  o'er  thy  Thamis  row  thy  ribbon'd  fair, 
Others  along  the  safer  Turnpike  fly, 
Some  llichmond-hill  ascend,  some  scud  to  W'are, 
And  many  to  the  steep  of  Highg'ite  hie.    ^ 
Ask  ye,  Boeotian  shades,  the  reason  why  ?(15) 
'Tis  to  the  worship  of  the  solemn  Horn, 
Grasped  in  the  holy  hand  of  Mystery, 
In  whose  dread  name  both  men  and  maids  are  sworn,- 
And  consecrate  the  oath  with  draught,  and  dance  till  morn. 

LXX  I. 

All  have  their  fooleries — not  alike  are  thine. 
Fair  Cadiz,  rising  o'er  the  dark  blue  sea  ! 
Soon  as  the  matin  bell  proclaimeth  nine. 
Thy  saint  adorers  count  the  rosary  : 
Much  is  the  Virgin  teazed  to  shrive  them  free 
(Well  do  I  ween  the  only  virgin  there) 
From  crimes  as  numerous  as  her  beadsmen  be  ; 
Then  to  the  crowded  circus  forth  they  fare, 
Young,  old,  high,  low,  at  once  the  same  diversion  shars* 

LXXH. 

The  lists  are  op'd,  the  spacious  area  cleared, 
Thousands  on  ttiousands  piled  are  seated  round  ; 
Long  ere  the  first  loud  trumpet's  note  is  heard, 
Ne  vacant  s|)ace  for  l«ted  wight  is  found 
Here  dons,  grandees,  but  chiefly  dames  abound, 
Skill'd  in  tlie  ogle  of  a  roguish  eye. 
Yet  ever  well  inclined  to  heal  the  wound; 
None  through  their  cold  disdain  are  doomed  to  die, 
As  moon-struck  bards  comi)lain,  by  Love's  sad  archery* 

LXXHL 

Hushed  is  the  din  of  tongues — on  gallant  steeds, 

A\'ith  milk-white-crest,  gold  spur,  and  light-poised  lance, 

Four  cavaliers  prepare  for  venturous  deeds. 

And  lowly  bending  to  the  lists  advance. 

Rich  are  their  scarfs,  their  chargers  featly  prance  ; 

If  in  the  dangerous  game  they  shine  to-day. 


PILGRIMAGE.  US 

t 

TJie  crowds  loud  shout,  and  ladii-s'  lovely  glance, 
Best  prize  of  better  acts,  they  bear  awa)-. 
And  all  that  kings  or  chiefs  e'er  gain  their  toils  repay. 

Lxxn^ 

In  costly  sheen  and  gaudy  cloak  arrayed 
But  all  afoot,  the  liglit  limbed  Mattadorfl 
Stands  in  the  centre,  eager  to  invade 
The  lord  of  lowing  herds  j  but  not  before 
The  ground,  with  cautious  tread,  is  traversed  o'er 
Lest  aught  unseen  should  lurk  to  thwart  his  speeil : 
His  arms  a  dart,  he  fights  aloof,  nor  more 
Can  man  atchieve,  without  the  friendly  steed, 

Alas  !   too  oft  condemned  for  him  to  bear  and  bleed. 

LXXV. 
Thrice  sounds  the  clarion  :  lo  !  the  signal  falls, 
The  den  expands,  and  Expectation  mute 
Gapes  round  the  silent  Circle's  peopled  walls. 
Bounds  with  one  lashing  spring  the  mighty  brute, 
And,  wildly  staring,  spurns,  with  sounding  loot, 
The  sand,  nor  blindly  rushes  on  his  foe. 
Here,  there,  he  points  his  threatening  front,  to  suit 
His  first  attack,    v/ide  waving  to  and  fro 

His  angry  tail  5  red  rolls  his  eye's  dilated  glow. 

LXXVL 
Sudden  he  stops  ;  his  eye  is  fixed  :— away 
Away,  thou  heedless  boy  !  prepare  the  spear  ; 
Now  is  thy  time,  to  perish,  or  display 
The  skill  that  yet  may  cbeck  his  mad  career. 
With  well-timed  croupe  the  nimble  coursers  veer  ; 
On  foams  the  bull,  but  not  unscathed  he  goes  ; 
Streams  from  his  flunk  the  crimson  torrent  clear : 
He  flies,  he  wheels,  distracted  with  his  throes  ;         [woes. 

Dart  follows  dart  )  lance,  lance  ;  loud  bellowings  speak  his 

LXXVII. 
Again  he  comes  ;  nor  dart  nor  lance  avail. 
Nor  the  wild  plunging  of  the  tortured  horse  j 
Though  man  and  man's  avenging  arms  assail, 
Vain  are  his  weapons,  vainer  is  his  force. 
One  gallant  steed  is  stretched  a  mangled  corse  ; 
Another,  hideous  sight !   unseamed  appears. 
His  gory  chest  unveils  life's  panting  source. 
Though  death-struck,  still  his  feeble  frame  ho  rears, 

Staggering,  but  stemming  all,  his  lord  unharmed  he  bears. 

LXXVHI. 
Foiled,  bleeding,  breathless,  i'urious  to  the  last, 
l''ull  in  the  centre  stands  the  bull  at  bay, 
'Mid  wounds,  and  clinging  durts,  and  lunce4brus(, 


144  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

And  foes  disabled  in  the  brutal  fray  : 
And  now  the  Matadores  around  him  play, 
Shake  the  red  cloak,  and  poise  the  ready  brand ; 
Once  more  through  all  he  bursts  his  tJiundering  way — 
Vain  rage  !  the  mantle  quits  the  conynge  hand, 
Wraps  ills  fierce  eje — 'tis  past — he  sinks  upon  the  sand ! 

LXXIX. 
Where  his  vast  neck  just  mingles  with  the  spine. 
Sheathed  in  his  form  the  deadly  weapon  lies. 
He  stops— he  starts— <lisdaining  to  decline  ' 
Slowly  he  falls,  amidst  triumphant  cries. 
Without  a  groan,  without  a  struggle  dies. 
The  decorated  car  appears — on  high 
The  corse  is  piled — sweet  sight  for  vulgar  eyes — 
Fom.steeds  that  spurn  the  rein,  as  swift  as  shy, 
Hurl  the  dark  bulk  along — scarce  seen  in  dashing  by. 

LXXX. 

Such  the  ungentle  sport  that  oft  invites 

The  Spanish  maid,  and  cheers  the  Spanish  swain. 

Nurtured  in  blood  betimes,  his  heart  delights 

In  vengeance,  gloating  on  another's  pain. 

What  private  feuds  the  troubled  village  stain  ! 

Though  now  one  phalanxed  host  should  meet  the  foe, 

Enough,  alas  !  in  humble  homes  remain, 

To  meditate  'gainst  friends  the  secret  blow, 
For  iome  slight  cause  of  wrath,  whence  life's  warm  streuTn 
must  flow. 

LXXXI. 

But  Jealousy  has  fled  :  his  bars,  his  bolts. 

His  withered  centinel.  Duenna  sage  ! 

And  all  whereat  the  generous  soul  revolts, 

Which  the  stern  dotard  deemed  he  could  encage, 

Have  passed  to  daikness  with  the  vanished  age. 

AVho  late  so  I'ree  as  Spanish  girls  were  seen, 

(Ere  War  uprose  in  his  volcanic  rage). 

With  briiided  tresses  bounding  o'er  the  green. 
While  on  the  gay  dance  shone  Night's  lover-loving  Queen  ? 

LXXXII. 

Oh  !  many  a  time,  and  oft,  had  Harold  loved, 
Or  dreamed  he  loved,  since  Rapture  is  a  dream  ; 
But  now  his  wayward  bosom  was  unmoved. 
For  not  yet  had  he  drunk  of  Lethe's  stream  ; 
And  lately  had  he  learned  with  truth  to  deem 
Love  has  no  gift  so  grateful  as  his  wings  : 
How  fair,  how  young,  how  soft  soe'er  he  seem. 
Pull  from  the  fount  of  Joy's  delicious  springs 
Some  bitter  o'er  the  flowers  its  bubbling  venom  flings  (18) 


PILGRIMAGE.  145 

LXXXIII. 

Yet  to  the  beauteous  form  he  was  not  blinJ, 
Though  now  it  moved  him  as  it  moves  the  wise ; 
Not  that  Philosophy  on  such  a  mind 
E'er  deigned  to  bend  her  chastely-awful  eyes: 
But  Passion  raves  herself  to  rest,  or  flies ; 
And  Vice,  that  digs  her  own  voluptuous  tomb. 
Had  buried  long  his  hopes,  no  more  to  rise  : 
Pleasure's  palled  victim  !  life-abhorring  gloom 
Wrote  on  his  faded  brow  curst  Cain's  unresting  doom. 

LXXXIV. 

Still  he  beheld,  nor  mingled  with  the  throng ; 
But  viewed  them  not  with  misanthropic  hate  : 
Fain  would  he  now  have  joined  the  dance,  the  song  ; 
But  who  may  smile  that  sinks  beneath  his  fate? 
Nought  that  he  saw  his  sadness  could  abate  : 
Yet  once  he  struggled  'gainst  the  demon's  sway, 
And  as  in  Beaut}''s  bower  he  pensive  sate. 
Poured  forth  this  unpremeditated  laj'. 
To  charms  as  fair  as  thosa  that  soothed  his  happier  day. 


TO  INEZ. 


1. 

Nay,  smile  not  at  my  sullen  brow, 

Alas  !   I  cannot  smile  again  ; 
Yet  heaven  avert  that  ever  thou 

Should'st  weep,  and  haply  weep  in  vain. 

2. 

And  dost  thou  ask,  what  secret  woe 
I  bear,  corroding  joy  and  youth  ? 

And  wilt  thou  vainly  seek  to  know 
A  pang,  ev'n  thou  must  fail  to  soothe  ? 

3. 

It  is  not  love,  it  is  not  hate, 

Nor  low  Ambition's  honors  lost, 

That  bids  me  loathe  my  present  state, 
And  fly  from  all  I  prized  the  most : 

4. 

It  is  that  weariness  which  springs 
From  all  I  meet,  or  hear,  or  see  : 

To  me  no  jileasure  Ueauty  brings  ; 
Thine  eyes  have  scarce  a  charm  for  me. 
N 


146  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

5. 

It  is  that  settled,  ceaseless  gloom 
The  tabled  Hebrew  wanderer  bore ; 

That  will  not  look  beyond  the  tomb, 
liut  cannot  hope  lor  rest  belore. 

6. 

What  Exile  from  himself  can  flee  ? 

To  Zones,  though  more  and  more  remote^ 
Still,  still  pursues,  where'er  I  be, 

The  blight  of,  life— the  demon,  Thought. 


Yet  others  wrapt  in  pleasure  seem,    » 

And  taste  of  all  that  I  forsake  ; 
Oh  !  maj-  they  still  of  transport  dream. 
And  ne'er,  at  least  like  me,  awake ! 

8, 

Through  many  a  clime  'tis  mine  to  go. 
With  many  a  retrospection  curst ; 

And  all  my  solace  is  to  know, 

Whate'er  betides^  I've  known  the  worst. 

What  is  that  worst?  Nay,  do  not  ask — 

In  pity  from  the  search  forbear  : 
Smile  on— nor  venture  to  unmask 

Man's  heart,  and  Tiew  the  Hell  that's  there. 


LXXXV. 

Adieu,  fair  Cadi?  !  yea,  a  long  adieu  ! 
Who  may  forget  how  well  thy  walls  have  stood? 
When  all  were  changing  thou  alone  wert  true, 
First  to  be  free  and  last  to  be  subdued  : 
And  if  amidst  a  scene,  a  shock  so  rude, 
Some  native  blood  was  seen  thy  streets  to  dye  ; 
A  traitor  only  fell  beneath  the  feud  :  (17) 
Here  all  were  nuble,  save  Nobility  ; 
None  hugged  a  Conqueror's  chaiji,  save  fallen  Chivalry  ! 

LXXXVI. 
Such  he  the  sons  of  Spain,  and  strange  her  ful«  ! 
They  light  for  freedom  who  were  never  free ; 
A  Kingless  people  for  a  nerveless  state. 
Her  vas*als  combat  wheu  their  chieftuin*  flee, 


PILGRIMAGE.  H7 

True  to  the  veriest  slaves  of  Treachery : 

Fond  of  a  land  which  gave  them  iiousht  but  life, 

Pride  iioiiits  the  path  that  leads  to  Liberty  ; 

Back  to  the  struggle,  baffled  in  the  strife, 
War,  war  is  still  the  cry,  "  War  even  to  the  knife  !  "  (18) 
LXXXVII. 

Ye,  who  would  more  of  Spain  and  Spaniards  know, 

Go,  read  whate'er  is  writ  of  bloodiest  strife  : 

AVhate'er  keen  Vengeance  urged  on  foreign  foe 

Can  act,  is  acting  there  against  man's  life  ; 

From  flashing  scimitar  to  secret  knife, 

War  mouldeth  there  each  weapon  to  his  need — 

So  may  he  guard  the  sister  and  the  wife, 

So  may  he  make  each  curst  oppressor  bleed. 
So  may  such  foes  deserve  the  most  remorseless  deed  ! 

LXXXVIIL 

Flows  there  a  tear  of  pity  lor  the  dead  ? 

Look  o'er  the  ravage  of  the  reeking  plain  ; 

Look  on  the  hands  witli  female  slaughter  red  : 

Then  to  the  dogs  resign  the  unburied  slain, 

Then  to  the  vulture  let  each  corse  remiiiu  ; 

Albeit  unworthy  of  the  prey-bird's  maw, 

Let  their  bleached  bones,  and  blood's  unbleaching  stain, 

Long  mark  the  battle-field  with  hideous  awe  : 
Thus  only  may  our  sons  conceive  the  scenes  we  saw  ! 

LXXXIA'. 

Nor  yet,  alas  !  the  dreadful  work  is  done, 
Fresh  legions  pour  adown  the  Pyrenees  ; 
It  deepens  still,  the  work  is  scarce  begun, 
Nor  mortal  eye  the  distant  end  foresees. 
Fall'n  nations  ga/.t'  on  SiKiin  ;  if  freed,  she  frees 
More  than  her  fell  Pizarros  once  enchained  : 
Strange  retribution  !   now  Columbia's  ease 
Re|)airs  the  wrongs  that  Quito's  sons  sustained, 
While  o'er  the  parent  clime  prowls  Murder  unrestrained. 

XC. 

Not  all  the  blood  at  Talavera  shed, 
Not  all  the  marvels  of  liarossa's  fight, 
Not  Albuera  lavish  of  the  dead. 
Have  won  for  Spain  her  well  asserted  right. 
When  shall  her  Olive-Branch  be  free  from  bliglit  ? 
When  shall  she  breathe  her  from  the  blusiiiiig  toil  ? 
How  man)'  a  doubtful  da)"  shall  sink  in  night. 
Ere  the  Frank  robber  turn  him  from  his  sjioil, 
And  Freedom's  stranger-tree  grow  native  of  the  soil ! 


1«  (JUILDE  HAROLD'S 

XCI. 
And  thou,  my  friend  !  (19)— since  unavailing  woe 
Bursts  I'rom  my  heart,  and  mingles  with  the  strain- 
Mad  the  sword  laid  thee  wi(h  the  mighty  low. 
Pride  might  forbid  ev'n  I'liendship  to  complain  : 
liut  thus  unlaurelled  to  ilfsreiid  in  vain, 
By  all  forgotten,  save  th  '  lonely  breast, 
And  mix  unbleeding  with  the  iwasted  slain. 
While  Glory  crowns  so  many  a  meaner  crest  ! 
What  hadst  thou  done  to  sink  so  peacefully  to  rest  ? 

XCII. 

Oh,  known  the  earliest,  and  esteemed  the  most  ! 
Dear  to  a  liearl  where  nought  was  left  so  dear  I 
'i'hough  to  my  hopeless  days  for  ever  lost,   <• 
In  dreams  deny  me  not  to  see  thee  here  ! 
And  Morn  in  secret  shall  renew  the  tear 
Ol  Consciousness  awaking  to  her  woes, 
And  Fancy  hover  o'er  thy  bloodless  bier, 
Till  my  frail  fame  redirn  to  whence  it  rose, 
And  mourned  and  mourner  lie  united  in  repose. 

XCIII. 
Here  is  one  fytte  of  Harold's  pilgrimage  : 
Ye  who  of  him  may  further  seek  to  know. 
Shall  find  some  tidings  in  a  future  page, 
If  he  that  rhymeth  now  may  scribble  moe. 
Is  this  too  much  ?  stern  Critic  !  say  not  so  : 
Patience  !  and  ye  shall  hear  what  he  beheld 
In  other  lands,  where  he  was  doomed  to  go : 
Lands  that  contain  the  monuments  of  Eld, 
Ere  Greece  and  Grecian  arts  by  barbarous  hands  were  quelled. 


PILGRIiMAGE.  H9 


€i)i\^t  Mi-m'si  Plffvintasr* 


CANTO    II- 


I. 

Come,  blue-ej'ed  maid  of  heaven  ! — but  thou,  alas  ! 
Didst  never  }et  one  mortal  song  inspire — 
Goddess  of  Wisdom  I   here  thj-  temple  was, 
And  is,  despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire,  (1) 
And  years  that  bade  tliy  worship  to  expire  : 
But  worse  than  steel,  and  fiame,  and  ages  slow, 
Is  the  dread  sceptre  and  dominion  dire 
Of  men  who  never  lelt  the  sacred  glow 
That  thonghts  of  thee  and  thine  on  polished  breasts  bestow.  ('2) 

II- 

Ancient  of  da}-s  !  augnst  Athena  !  where, 
^\'here  are  llij"  men  of  might  ?  thy  grand  in  soul  ? 
<ione — glimmering  through  the  dream  of  things  that  were  : 
•First  in  the  race  that  led  to  Glory's  goal, 
They  won,  and  passed  away — is  this  the  whole  ? 
A  school-ljoy's  tale,  the  wonder  of  an  hour  ! 
The  warrior's  weapon  and  the  sophist's  stole 
iVre  sought  in  vairi,  and  o'er  each  mouldering  tower. 
Dim  will)  the  mist  of  years,  grey  tlils  the  shade  of  power. 

ill. 

Son  of  the  morning,  rise  !  approach  you  here  ! 
Come — but  molest  not  jon  del'enceless  urn  : 
Look  on  this  spot — a  iKition's  sepulchre  ! 
Abode  of  gods,  whose  shrines  no  longer  burn. 
Even  gods  must  yield — religions  take  their  turn  : 
'Twas  Jove's — 'tis  Mahomet's — and  other  creeds 
Will  rise  witli  other  years,  till  man  shall  learn 
Vainly  his  incense  soars,  his  victim  bleeds  ; 
Poor  child  of  Doubt  and  Death,  whose  hope  is  built  on  reeds. 

JV. 
Bound  to  the  earth,  he  lifts  his  eye  to  heaven — 

Is't  not  enough,  unliapp}- tiling  f  to  know 
Thou  art  ?     Is  this  a  boon  so  kindly  given. 
That  being,  IIkhi  wouldst  be  again,  and  go. 
Thou  know'st  not,  reck'st  not  to  what  region,  so 
On  earth  no  more,  but  mingled  with  the  skies  ? 
Still  wilt  thou  dream  on  luture  Joy  and  woe  ? 
Regard  and  weigh  yon  (lust  before  il  flies  : 
That  little  urn  sailb  more  than  thousand  honiJlies, 

.N.2 


150  CIIILDE    HAROLD'S 

V. 

Or  burst  the  vanished  Hero's  loffy  mound  ; 
Far  on  the  solitary  shore  he  sleeps  :  (3) 
He  fell,  and  falling  nations  mourned  around  ; 
But  now  not  one  of  saddening  thousands  weeps, 
Nor  warlike-worshipper  his  vigil  keeps 
Where  demi-gods  appeared,  as  records  tell. 
Remove  yon  scull  from  out  the  scattered  heaps  : 
Is  that  a  temple  where  a  God  niJiy  dwell  ? 
Why  e'en  Uie  worm  at  last  disdains  her  shattered  cell ! 

VI. 

Look  on  its  broken  arch,  its  ruined  wall, 
Its  chambers  desolate,  and  portals  foul  : 
Yes,  tliis  was  once  Ambition's  airy  hall, 
The  dome  of  Thought,  the  palace  of  the  Soul : 
Behold  through  each  lack-lustre,  eyeless  hole. 
The  gay  recess  of  Wisdom  and  of  Wit 
And  (lassioii's  host,  that  never  brooket!  control : 
Can  all,  saint,  sage,  or  sophist  ever  writ, 
People  this  lonelj  tower,  this  tenement  refit  ? 

VII. 

Well  didst  thou  sp.^ik,  Atliena's  wisest  son  ! 

"  All  that  we  know  is,  nothing  can  be  known." 

Why  should  we  shrink  from  what  we  cannot  shun  ? 

Each  has  his  pang,  but  feeble  sutterers  groan 

With  brain-boni  dreams  of  evil  all  their  own. 

Pursue  what  Chance  or  Fate  prodaimelh  best ; 

Peace  waits  us  on  the  shores  of  Acheron  : 

There  no  forced  banquet  claims  the  sated  guest, 
But  silence  spreads  the  couch  of  ever  welcome  rest. 

VIII. 

Yet  if  as  holiest  men  have  deemed,  there  be 

A  land  of  souls  beyond  that  sable  shore. 

To  shame  the  doctrine  of  the  Sadducee 

And  sophists,  madly  vain  a  dubious  lore  ; 

H^w  sweet  it  weie  in  concert  to  adore 

With  those  who  made  our  mortal  labours  light ; 

To  hear  each  voice  we  feared  to  hear  no  more  ! 

Behold  each  mighty  shade  revealed  to  sight, 
The  Bactrian,  Samian  sage,  and  all  who  taught  the  right 

IX. 

There,  thou  !  who've  love  and  life  together  fled, 

Have  left  me  here  to  love  and  live  in  vain — 

Twined  with  my  heart,  and  can  I  deem  thee  dead. 

When  busy  Memory  flashes  on  ni)'  brain  ? 

Well—  I  will  dream  that  we  may  meet  again, 

AnJ  woo  the  vision  1o  my  vacant  breast : 


PILGRIMAGE.  151 

If  auglit  of  young  Remembrance  then  remain, 
Be  as  it  may  Futurity's  behest, 
For  me  'twere  bliss  enough  to  know  thy  spirit  blest ! 

X. 

Here  let  me  sit  upon  this  massy  stone. 
The  marble  column's  yet  unshaken  base^ 
Here,  son  of  Saturn  !   was  thy  fav'rite  throne  :  (4) 
Mightiest  of  many  such  !   Hence  let  me  trace 
The  latent  grandeur  of  thy  dwelling-place. 
It  may  not  be  :  nor  ev'n  can  Fancy's  eye 
Restore  what  Time  hath  laboured  to  deface. 
Yet  these  proud  pillars  claim  no  passing  sigh, 
Unmoved  the  Moslem  sits,  the  light  Greek  cajols  by. 

XI. 

But  who,  of  all  the  plunderers  of  yon  fane 
Oa  high,  where  Pallas  lingered  loth  to  flee 
Tlie  latest  relic  of  her  ancient  reign  : 
The  last,  the  worst,  dull  spoiler,  who  was  he  ? 
Blush,  Caledonia  !  sucli  thy  son  could  be  ! 
England  !   I  joy  no  child  he  was  of  thine  : 
Thy  free-born  men  should  spare  what  once  was  free  ; 
Yet  they  could  violate  each  saddening  shrine. 
And  bear  these  altars  o'er  the  long  reluctant  brine.  (5) 

XII. 

But  most  the  modern  Pict's  ignoble  boast. 

To  rive  what  Goth,  and  Turk,  and  Time  hath  spared  :  (6) 

Cold  as  the  crags  upon  his  native  coast. 

His  mind  as  barren  and  his  heart  as  hard. 

Is  he  whose  head  conceived,  whose  hand  prepared. 

Aught  to  displace  Athena's  poor  remains  : 

Her  sons  too  weak  the  sacred  shrine  to  guard. 

Yet  I'elt  somi!  portion  of  their  mother's  pains,  (7) 

And  never  knew,  till  then,  the  weight  of  Despot's  chains. 

XIII. 
What !  sh.'ill  it  e'er  be  said  by  British  tongue, 
Albion  was  luippy  in  Athena's  tears? 
Though  in  II13  n;ime  the  slaves  her  bosom  vvTung, 
Tell  not  the  ileeil  to  blushing  Europe's  ears ; 
Tlie  ocean  queen,  the  free  Britannia  bears 
Tlie  last  poor  plunder  from  a  bleeding  land  : 
Yes,  she,  whose  gen'rous  aid  her  name  endears. 
Tore  down  those  remnants  willi  a  Harpy's  hand. 

Which  envious  Eld  forebore,  and  tyrants  left  to  stand. 

XIV. 

Where  was  thine  yEgis,  Pallas!  that  appalled 
Stern  Alaric  and  Havoc  on  their  way?  (8) 
S'bere  I'cleus'  so;.'?  whom  Hell  in  vain  enthralled, 


i5-2  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

His  shade  from  Hades  upon  that  dread  day, 

Bursting  to  light  in  terrible  array  ! 

What !  could  not  Pluto  spair  the  chief  once  more, 

To  scare  a  second  robber  from  his  prey  ? 

Idly  he  wandered  on  the  Stygian  shore, 
Nor  now  preserved  the  walls  he  loved  to  shield  before. 

XV. 

Cold  is  the  heart,  fair  Greece  !  that  looks  on  thee. 

Nor  feels  as  lovers  o'er  the  dust  they  loved ; 

Dull  is  tlie  eye  that  will  not  weep  to  see 

Thy  walls  defaced,  thy  mouldering  shrines  removed 

By  British  hands,  which  it  had  best  behoved 

To  guard  those  relics  ne'er  to  be  restored. 

Curst  be  that  hour  when  from  their  isle  they  roved, 
_    And  once  again  thy  hapless  bosom  gored, 
And  snatched  thy  shrinking  Gods  to  northern  climes  abhorred. 

XVI. 

But  where  is  Harold?  shall  I  then  forget 

To  urge  the  gloomy  wanderer  o'er  the  wave? 

Little  recked  he  of  all  that  men  regret  ; 

No  loved-one  now  in    feigned  lament  could  rave ; 

No  friend  tiie  parting  hand  extended  gave, 

Ere  the  cold  str.mger  passed  to  other  climes: 

Hard  is  his  heart  whom  charms  may  not  enslave  ; 

But  Harold  fell  not  as  in  other  times. 
And  left  without  a  sigh  the  land  of  war  and  crimes. 

XVJf. 

He  that  hall)  sailed  upon  the  dark  blue  sea, 
Jlas  viewed  at  times,  I  ween,  a  lull  iair  sight  ; 
When  tlie  fre^h  breeze  is  lair  as  breeze  may  be, 
The  while  sail  set,  the  gallant  frigate  tight ; 
Masts,  spires,  and  strand  retiring  to  the  right. 
The  glorious  main  expanding  o'er  the  bow. 
The  convoy  spread  like  wild  swans  in    their  flight, 
The  dullest  sailor  wearing  bravely  now. 
So  gaily  curl  the  waves  before  each  dashing  prow. 

XVIII. 

And  oh,  the  little  warlike  world  within  I 
The  well-reeved  guns,  the  netted  canoiiy,  (9) 
The  hoarse  command,  the  busy  humming  din, 
AV^hen,  at  a  word,  the  tops  are  manned  on  high  : 
Hark  to  the  Boatswain's  call,  the  cheering  cry  I 
While  through  the  seaman's  hand  the  tackle  glides  ; 
Or  school-boy  Midshipman  that,  standing  by. 
Strains  his  shrill  pipe  as  good  or  ill  betides, 
And  well  the  docile  crew  that  skilful  urchin  guides. 


IMLGllIMAGE.  153 

XIX. 

White  is  the  glassy  deck,  williout  a  stain, 
Where  on  the  watch  tlie  staid  Lieutenant  walks  : 
Look  on  that  pnrt  which  sacred  dolh  remain 
For  the  lone  chieltain,  who  majestic  stalks, 
Silent  and  feared  by  all     not  oft  he  talks 
With  aught  beneath  bim,  if  he  would  preserve 
That  strict  restraint,  which  broken,  ever  baulks 
Conquest  and  Fame  r  but  Britons  rarely  swerve 
From  law,  Lowever  stern,  wnich  tends  their  strength  to  nerve. 

XX. 

Blow  !  swii"tl3-  blow,  thou  keel  compelling  gale  ! 
Till  the  broad  sun  withdraws  his  lessening  ray  ; 
Then  must  the  pennant-bearer  slacken  sail. 
That  lagging  barks  may  make  their  lazy  way. 
Ah  !   grievance  sore,  and  listless  dull  delaj'. 
To  waste  on  sluggish  hulks  the  sweetest  breeze  ! 
What  leagues  are  lost  before  the  dawn  of  day. 
Thus  loitering  pensive  on  the  willing  seas. 
The  flapping  sail  hauled  down  to  halt  lor  logs  like  these  ! 

XXL 

The  moon  is  up  ;  by  Heaven  a  lovel}'  eve  ! 
Long  streams  of  light  o'er  dancing  waves  expand  ; 
Now  lads  on  shore  may  sigh,  and  maids  believe  : 
Such  be  our  fate  when  we  return  to  land  ! 
Meantime  some  rude  Arion's  restless  hand 
Wakes  the  brisk  harmony  that  sailors  love  ; 
A  circle  there  of  merry  listners  stand. 
Or  to  some  well-known  measure  featly  move. 
Thoughtless,  as  if  on  shore  they  still  were  free  to  rove. 

XXIL 

Through  Calpe's  straits  survey  the  steepy  shore  ; 
Europe  and  A  frica  on  each  other  gaze  ! 
Lands  of  the  dark-eyed  Maid  and  dusky  Moor 
Alike  beheld  beneath  pale  Hecate's  blaze  : 
How  softly  on  the  Spanish  shore  she  plays, 
Disclosing  rock,  and  slope,  and  forest  brown. 
Distinct,  though  darkening  with  her  waning  phase  ; 
But  Mauritania's  giant  shadows  frown. 
From  mountain-cliff  to  coast  descending  sombre  down. 

xxrn. 

'Tis  night,  when  Meditation  bids  us  feel 
We  once  have  loved  though  love  is  at  an  end  : 
The  heart,  lone  mourner  of  its  baffled  zeal. 
Though  friendless  now,  will  dream  it  had  a  friend. 
Who  with  the  weight  of  years  would  wi-li  to  bend, 
When  Youth  itself  survives  young  Love  and  Joy  ? 


164  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

AIhs  !  when  mine^ling  souls  forget  to  hlend, 

Death  hath  but  little  left  him  to  destroy ! 

A  h  !  happy  years  !  once  more  who  would  not  be  a  boy  ? 

XXIV. 

Thus  bending  o'er  the  vessel's  laving  side, 
To  gaze  on  Dian's  wave-reflected  sphere, 
The  soul  forgets  her  schemes  of  Hope  and  Pride, 
And  flies  unconscious  o'er  each  backward  year. 
None  are  so  desolate  but  something  dear, 
Dearer  than  self,  possesses  or  possessed 
A  thought,  and  claims  the  homage  of  a  tear  ; 
A  flashing  pang  !  of  which  the  wtaiy  breast 
Would  still,   albeit  in  vain,  the  houvy  heart  divest. 

XXV. 

To  sit  on  rocks,  to  muse  oe'r  flood  and  fell. 
To  slowly  trace  the  forest's  shady  scene. 
Where  things  thpt  own  not  man's  dominion  dwell, 
And  mortal  foot  hath  ne'er,  or  rarely  been  ; 
To  climb  the  trackless  mountain  all  unseen. 
With  the  wild  flock  that  never  needs  a  fold, 
Alone  o'er  steeps  nnd  foaming  falls  to  lean  j 
This  is  not  solitude  ;  'tis  but  to  hold 
Converse  with  Nature's  charms,  and  view  her  stores  unrolled. 

XXVI. 
But  midst  the  crowd,  the  hum,  the  shock  of  men, 
To  hear,  to  see,  to  feel,  and  to  possess. 
And  roam  along,  the  world's  tired  denizen, 
With  none  who  bless  us,  none  whom  we  can  bless  ; 
Minions  of  splendor  shrinking  from  distress  ! 
None  that,  with  kindred  consciousness  endued, 
If  we  were  not,  would  seem  to  smile  the  less 
Of  all  that  flattered,  followed,  sought  and  sued  ; 
This  is  to  be  alone  :  this,  Ibis  is  solitude ! 

XXVII. 

More  blest  the  life  of  godly  Eremite, 
Such  as  on  lonely  Athos  may  be  seen, 
Watching  at  Eve  upon  the  giant  height. 
Which  looks  o'er  waves  so  blue,  skies  so  serene, 
That  he  who  there  at  such  an  hour  hath  been 
Will  wistful  linger  on  that  hallowed  spot ; 
Then  slowly  tear  him  from  the  witching  scene. 
Sigh  forth  one  wish  that  such  had  been  his  lot, 
Then  turn  to  hate  a  world  he  had  almost  forgot. 

XXVIII. 
Pass  we  the  long,  unvarying  course,  the  track 
Oft  trod,  that  never  leaves  a  trace  behind  ; 
Pass  we  the  Q&lva,  the  gale ,  th  e  change,  the  tack. 


PILGRIMAGE.  I55 

And  each  well  known  caprice  of  wave  and  wind; 
Pass  we  the  joys  and  sorrows  sailors  find. 
Cooped  in  their  winged  sea-girt  citadel ; 
The  foul,  the  fair,  the  contrary,  the  kind. 
As  breezes  rise  and  fall  and  billows  swell, 
Till  on  some  jocund  morn— lo,  land  !  and  all  is  well. 

XXIX. 
But  not  in  silence  pass  Calypso's  isles,  (10) 
The  sister  tenants  of  the  middle  deep  ; 
There  for  the  weary  still  a  haven  smiles. 
Though  the  fair  goddess  long  hath  ceased  to  weep ; 
And  o'er  her  clifis  a  fruitless  watch  to  keep 
For  him  who  dared  prefer  a  mortal  bride : 
Here,  too,  his  boy  essayed  the  dreadful  leap 
Stern  Mentor  urged  from  high  to  yonder  tide ; 
While  thus  of  both  bereft,  the  nymph-queen  doubly  sighed. 

XXX. 
Her  reign  is  past,  her  gentle  glories  gone  : 
But  trust  not  this  ;  too  easy  youth,  beware  ! 
A  mortal  sovereign  holds  her  dangerous  throne. 
And  thou  may'st  find  a  new  Calypso  there. 
Sweet  Florence  !  could  another  ever  share 
This  wajward,  loTeless  heart,  it  would  be  thine : 
But  checked  by  every  tie,  I  may  not  dare 
To  cast  a  worthless  otlering  at  thy  shrine. 
Nor  ask  so  dear  a  breast  to  feel  one  pang  for  mine. 

XXXI. 
Thus  Harold  deemed,  as  on  that  lady's  eye 
He  looked,  anil  met  its  beam  without  a  thought. 
Save  Admiration  glancing  harmless  by  : 
Love  kept  aloof,  albeit  not  far  remote. 
Who  knew  his  votary  often  lost  and  caught. 
But  knew  him  as  his  worshipper  no  more, 
And  ne'er  again  the  boy  his  bosom  sought : 
Since  now  he  vainly  urged  him  to  adore, 
Well  deemed  the  little  god  his  ancient  sway  was  o'er. 

XXXII. 
Fair  Florence  found,  in  sooth  with  some  amaze, 
One  who,  'twas  said,  still  sighed  to  all  he  saw. 
Withstand,  unmoved,  the  lustre  of  her  gaze, 
Which  others  hailed  with  real,  or  mimic  awe, 
Their  hope,  their  doom,  their  punishment,  their  law  • 
All  that  gay  Beauty  from  her  bondsmen  claims : 
And  much  she  marvelled  that  a  youth  so  raw 
Nor  felt,  nor  feigned  at  least,  the  oft-told  flames, 
Which,  tho'  sometimes  they  frown,  yet  rarely  anger  daftiex. 


156  CHILDE    HAROLD'S 

XXXIII. 

Little  knew  she  that  seeming  marble-heart. 
Now  masked  in  silence  or  withheld  by  pride. 
Was  not  iinskilful  in  the  spoiler's  art, 
And  spread  its  snares  licentious  tar  and  wide  ; 
Nor  from  the  base  pursuit  had  turnetl  aside, 
As  lonaf  as  aucfht  was  worthy  to  pursue  : 
But  Harold  on  such  arts  no  more  relied  ; 
And  had  he  doated  on  those  eyes  so  blue, 
Yet  never  would  he  join  the  lover's  whining  crew. 

XXXIV. 

Not  m\ich  he  kens,  I  ween,  of  Woman's  breast. 
Who  thinks  that  wanton  thing  is  won  by  sighs; 
What  careth  she  for  hearts  when  once  possessed  ? 
Do  proper  homage  to  thine  idol's  eyesf 
But  not  too  humbly,  or  she  will  despise 
Tbee  and  thy  suit,  though  told  in  moving  tropes  : 
Disguise  ev'n  tenderness,  if  thou  art  wise  ; 
Brisk  Confidence  still  best  with  woman  copes  ; 
Pique  her  and  soothe  in  turn,  soon  Passion  crowns  thy  hop«« 

XXXV. 

'Tis  an  old  lesson  ;  Time  approves  it  true, 
And  those  who  know  it  best  deplore  it  most ; 
When  all  is  won  that  all  desire  to  woo, 
The  paltry  prize  is  hardly  worth  the  cost : 
Youth  wasted,  minds  degraded,  honour  lost, 
These  are  thy  fruits,  suceessl'ul  passion  !  these  I 
If,  kindly  cruel,  early  Hope  is  crost. 
Still  to  the  last  it  rankles,  a  disease. 
Not  to  be  cured  when  Love  itself  forgets  to  please. 

XXXVI. 

Away  !  nor  let  me  loiter  in  my  song, 
For  we  have  many  a  mountain-path  to  tread. 
And  many  a  varied  shore  to  sail  ilong. 
By  pensive  Sadness,  not  by  Fiction,  led — 
Climes,  fair  withal  as  ever  mortal  head 
ImaLMued  in  its  little  schemes  of  thought ; 
Or  e'er  in  new  I'lopias  were  bred. 
To  teacii  man  what  he  might  be,  or  he  ought ; 
If  that  corrupted  thing  could  ever  such  be  taught. 

XXXVII. 

Dear  Nature  is  the  kindest  motlier  still, 

Though  always  changing,  in  her  aspect  mild  ; 

From  iier  bare  bosom  let  me  take  my  fill, 

Her  never-weaned,  though  not  her  favoured  child. 

Oh  !  she  is  fairest  in  her  features  wild. 

Where  nothing  polished  dares  pollute  her  path  ; 


PILGRIMAGE.  Ut 

To  me  by  day  or  night  she  ever  smiled. 
Though  I  have  marked  her  when  none  other  hath, 
And  soujjht  her  more  and  more,  and  loved  her  best  in  wrath. 

xxxviir. 

Land  of  Albania  !  where  Iskander  rose, 
Theme  of  the  young,  and  beacon  of  the  wise. 
And  he  his  name-sake,  whose  oft-baffled  foes 
Shrunk  from  his  deeds  of  chivalrous  eraprize  j 
I>and  of  Albania!   (II)  let  me  bend  my  eyes 
On  thee,  thou  rugged  imrse  of  savage  men  ! 
The  cross  descends,  thy  minarets  arise, 
And  the  pale  crescent  sparkles  in  the  glen, 

Through  many  a  cypress  grove  within  each  city's  ken. 

XXXIX. 
Childe  Harold  sailed,  and  passed  the  barren  spot,  (12) 
Where  sad  Penelope  o'erlooked  the  wave  ; 
And  onward  viewed  the  mount,  not  yet  forgot, 
The  lover's  refuge,  and  the  Lesbian's  grave. 
Dark  Sappho  !  could  not  verse  immortal  save 
That  breast  imbued  with  such  immortal  fire  ? 
Could  she  not  live  who  life  eternal  gave  ? 
If  life  eternal  may  await  the  lyre, 

That  only  Heaven  to  which  Earth's  children  may  aspire. 

A'L. 

'Twas  on  a  Grecian  autumn's  gentle  eve 
Childe  Harold  hailed  Leucadia's  cape  afar  ; 
A  spot  he  longed  to  see,  nor  cared  to  leave  : 
Oft  did  he  mark  the  scenes  of  vanished  war,_ 
Actium,  Lepanto,  fatal  Trafalgar  ;   (13) 
Mark  them  unmoved,  for  he  would  not  delight 
(Born  beneath  some  remote  inglorious  star) 
In  themes  of  bloody  fray,  or  gallant  fight, 
But  loathed  the  bravo's  trade,  and  laughed  at  martial  wight. 

XLI. 
Bnt  when  he  saw  the  evening  star  above 
Leucadia's  far-projecting  rock  of  woe, 
And  hailed  the  last  resort  of  fruitless  love,  (14) 
He  felt,  or  deemed  he  felt,  no  common  glow  : 
And  as  the  stately  vessel  glided  slow 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  that  ancient  mount, 
He  watched  the  billows'  melancholy  How, 
And  sunk  albeit  in  Uionght  as  he  was  wont, 
More  placid  seemeil  his  eye,  and  smooth  his  pallid  frOMt. 

XLII. 
Mom  dawns  ;  and  with  it  stern  Albania's  hills. 
Dark  Sulis'  rocks,  and  Pijidns'  inland  peak, 
R«bed  half  in  mist,  bedewed  with  snowy  rills, 

O 


1^1  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

Anayed  in  many  a  dun  and  purple  streak, 
Arise  ;  and,  as  the  c1o\r!s  along  them  break, 
Disclose  the  dwelling  of  the  mountaineer: 
Here  roams  the  woli,  the  eagle  whets  his  beak, 
Birds,  beasts  ol'  prey,  and  wilder  men  appear, 
And  gathering  storms  around  convulse  the  closing  year. 

XLIII. 

Now  Harold  iVIt  himself  at  length  alone, 
Am\  bade  to  Christian  tongues  a  long  adieu  ; 
Novv  he  adventured  on  a  shore  unknown. 
Which  all  admire,  but  many  dread  to  view  : 
His  breeist  was  armed  'gainst  fate,  his  wants  were  few ; 
Peril  be  sought  not,  but  ne'er  shrank  to  meet, 
The  scene  was  savage,  but  the  scene  was  new  ; 
This  made  the  ceaseless  toil  of  travel  sweet. 
Beat  back  keen  winter's  blast,  and  welcomed  summar's  heat. 

XLIV. 
Here  the  red  cross,  for  still  the  cross  is  here. 
Though  sadly  scoffed  at  by  the  circumcised, 
Forgets  that  pride  to  pampered  Priesthood  dear  j 
Churchman  and  votary  alike  despised. 
Foul  Sui)erstition  !   howsoe'er  disguised. 
Idol,  saint,  virgin,  prophet,  crescent,  cross, 
For  whatsoever  symbol  thou  art  prized, 
Thou  sacerdotal  gain,  but  general  loss  ! 
Who  from  true  worship's  gold  can  separate  thy  dross  ? 

XLV. 

Ambracia's  gulph  behold,  where  once  was  lost 
A  world  lor  woman,  lovely,  harmless  thing  ! 
In  yonder  rippling  bay,  their  naval  host 
Did  many  a  Koman  chief  and  Asian  king  (15) 
To  doubtful  conflict,  certain  slaughter  bring: 
Look  where  the  second  Cicsar's  trophies  rose  !  (16) 
Now,  like  the  hands  that  reared  them,  withering  : 
Imperial  Anarchs,  doubling  human  woes  ! 
God  '.  was  thy  globe  ordained  for  such  to  win  and  loss 

XLVI. 

From  the  dark  barriers  of  that  rugged  clime, 
Ev'n  to  the  centre  of  Illyria's  vales, 
Childe  Harold  passed  o'er  many  a  mount  sublime, 
Through  lands  scarce  noticed  in  historic  tales  ; 
Yet  in  famed  Attica  such  lovely  dales 
Are  rarely  seen  ;  nor  can  fait  Tempe  boast 
A  i.harni  they  know  not  ;  loved  Parnassus  fails. 
Though  classic  ground  aiul  consecrated  most. 
To  Biatch  icme  .spots  that  lurk  within  this  lowering  coast. 


PILGlirMAGE.  1«9 

XLVri. 

Fie  passed  Iilesik  Pindus,  Acherusia's  lake,  (17) 
And  left  the  primal  city  of  the  land, 
And  onwards  did  his  further  journey  take 
To  greet  Albania's  chief,  ( 18)  whose  ihead  command 
Is  lawless  law  ;  for  with  a  bloody  liand 
He  sways  a  nation,  turbulent  and  bold  : 
Yet  here  and  there  some  daring-  mounlain-band 
Disdain  his  power,  and  from  then  rocky  hold 
Hurl  their  defiance  far,  nor  yield,  unless  to  gold.  (19) 

XLviir, 

Monastic  Zitza  !   (20)  from  thy  shady  brow. 
Thou  small,  but  favoured  spot  of  holy  giound  ! 
Where'er  we  gaze,  around,  above,  below, 
What  rainbow  tints,  what  magic  charms  are  found  ! 
Rock,  river,  forest,  mountain,  all  abound. 
And  bluest  skies  that  harmonize  the  whole  ! 
Beneath,  the  distant  torrent's  rushing  sound 
Tells  where  the  volumed  cataract  doth  roll 
Between  those  hanging  rocks,  that  shock  yet  please  the  soul. 

XLIX. 
Amidst  the  grove  that  crowns  yon  tufted  hill,  , 

Which,  were  it  not  for  many  a  mountain  nigh 
Rising  in  lofty  ranks,  and  loftier  still, 

Might  well  itself  be  deemed  of  dignity, 

The  convent's  white  walls  glisten  fair  on  high  ; 

Here  dwells  the  Caloyer,  (21)  nor  rude  is  he. 
Nor  niggard  of  his  cheer  ;  the  passer  by 
Is  welcome  still ;  nor  heedless  will  he  tiee 
From  hence,  if  he  delight  kind  Nature's  sheen  to  see. 

L. 

Here  in  the  sultriest  season  let  him  rest, 

Fresh  is  the  green  beneath  those  aged  trees ; 

Here  winds  of  gentlest  wing  will  fan  his  breast. 

From  heaven  itself  he  may  inhale  the  breeze  : 

The  plain  is  far  beneath— oh  !  let  him  seize 

Pure  pleasure  while  he  can  ;   the  scorching  ray 

Here  pierceth  not,  impreg;nate  with  disease ; 

Then  let  his  Iwigth  the  loitering  pilgrim  lay. 
And  gaze,  untired,  the  morn,  the  noon,  the  eve  away. 

LI. 

Dusky  and  huge,  enlarging  on  the  sight, 

Nature's  volcanic  amphitheatre,  (22) 

Chimipra's  Alps  extend  from  lelt  to  right  ^ 

Beneath,  a  living  valley  seems  to  stir  ; 

Flocks  play,  trees  wave,  streams  flow,  the  mountain-fir 

Nodd'uig  above  j  behold  black  Acheron !  (2'.i) 


160  CIIILDE  HAROLD'S 

Once  consecrated  to  the  sepulchrji, 

Pluto  !  W  this  be  hell  I  look  upon. 
Close  shamed  Elysium's  gates,  my  shade  shall  seek  for  none  ! 

LIT. 

Ne  city's  lowers  pollute  the  lovely  view  ; 

Unseen  is  Yanina,  though  not  remote, 

Veiled  by  the  screen  of  hills  :   here  men  are  few, 

Scanty  the  hamlet,  rare  the  lonely  cot ; 

But,  peering  down  each  precipice,  the  goat 

Browseth  ;  and,  pensive  o'er  his  scattered  flock. 

The  little  shepherd  in  his  white  capote  (24) 

Doth  lean  his bo\isli  lorm  along  the  rock, 
Or  in  his  cave  awaits  the  tempest's  short-lived  shock. 

LIII. 

Oh  !  where,  Dodona  !  is  thine  aged  grove. 
Prophetic  fount,  and  oracle  divine  ? 
What  valley  echoed  the  response  of  Jove  ? 
What  trace  remaineth  of  tlie  thunderer's  shine  ? 
All,  all  forgotten — and  shall  D.nn  repine 
That  his  frail  bonds  to  fleeting  life  are  broke  ? 
Cease,  fool !  the  fate  of  gods  may  well  be  thine  : 
Wouldst  thou  survive  the  marble  or  the  oak  ?  (stroke. 

When  nations,  tongues,  and  worlds,  must  sink    beneath  th« 

LIV. 
Epirus'  bounds  recede,  and  mountains  fail ; 
Tired  of  up-gazing  still,  the  wearied  eye 
Reposes  gladly  on  as  smooth  a  vale 
As  ever  Spring  yclad  in  grassy  dye  : 
Ev'n  on  a  plain  no  humble  beauties  lie. 
Where  some  bold  river  breaks  the  long  expanse. 
And  woods  along  the  banks  are  waving  high. 
Whose  shadows  in  the  glassy  waters  dance. 
Or  with  the  moon-beam  sleep  in  midnight's  solemn  trance. 

LV. 

The  sun  had  sunk  behind  vast  Tomerit,   (25) 
And  Laos  wide  and  fierce  came  roaring  by  ;  (28) 
The  shades  of  wonted  night  were  gathering  yet. 
When,  down  the  steep  banks  winding   warily, 
Childe  Harold  saw,  like  meteors  in  the  sky. 
The  glittering  minarets  of  Tepaien, 
Whose  walls  o'erlook  the  stream  ;  and  drawing  nigh, 
He  heard  the  busy  hum  of  warrior  men 
Swelling  the  breeze  that  sighed  along  the  lengthening  gleu. 

LVL 

He  passed  the  sacred  Haram's  silent  tower. 
And  underneath  the  wide  o'erarching  gate 
Surveyed  the  dwelling  of  this  chief  of  power, 


PILGRIMAGE.  Ifil 

Where  all  around  proclaimed  his  high  estate. 

Amidst  no  common  pomp  the  despot  sate, 

While  bus)'  preparation  shook  the  court, 

Slaves,  eunuchs,  soldiers,  guests,  and  santons  wait ; 

Within,  a  palace,  and  without,  a  fort : 
Here  meu  of  every  clime  appear  to  make  resort. 

LVII. 

Richly  caparisoned,  a  ready  row 

Of  armed  horse,  and  many  a  warlike  store 

Circled  the  wide  extending  court  below  : 

Above,  strange  groups  adorned  the  corridore; 

And  olt-times  thruugh  the  Area's  echoing  door 

Some  high  capped  Tartar  spurred  his  steed  away  : 

The  Turk,  the  Greek,  the  Albanian,  and  the  Moor, 

Here  mingled  in  their  many-hued  array, 
While  the  deep  war  drum's  sound  announced  the  close  of  dny. 

LVIII. 

The  wild  Albanian  kirtled  to  his  knee. 

With  shawl-kirt  head  and  ornamented  gun. 

And  gold-embroidered  garments,  fair  to  see ; 

The  crimson-scarfed  men  of  Macedon ; 

The  Delhi  with  his  cap  of  terror  on. 

And  crooked  glaive  ;  the  lively,  supple  Greek  j 

And  swarthy  Nubia's  mutilated  son  ; 

The  bearded  Turk,  that  rarely  deigns  to  speak, 
Master  of  all  around,  too  potent  to  be  meek. 

LIX. 

Are  mixed  conspicuous :  some  recline  in  groups, 

Scanning  the  motley  scene  that  varies  round  ; 

There  some  grave  Moslem  to  devotion  «toops, 

And  some  that  smoke,  and  some  that  play,  are  found  ; 

Here  the  Albanian  proudly  treads  the  ground  ; 

Half  whispering  there  \he  Greek  is  heard  to  prate  ; 

Hark  !   from  the  mosque  the  nightly  solemn  sound, 

The  Muezzin's  call  doth  shake  the  minaret, 
♦'  There  is  no  god  but  God  !—  to  prayer— lo  !  God  is  great !" 

LX. 

.Tust  as  the  season  Ramazani's  fast 
Through  the  long  day  its  pi'oance  did  maintain  : 
But  when  the  lingering  t^^ilight  hour  was  past, 
Revel  and  feast  assumed  the  rule  again  : 
Now  all  was  bustle,  and  the  menial  train 
Prepared  and  spread  the  plenteous  board  within  ; 
The  vacant  gallery  now  seemed  made  in  v;iin, 
But  from  the  chambers  came  the  mingling  din, 
As  page  and  slave  anon  were  passing  out  anil  in. 

O  2 


1«2  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

LXI. 

Here  woman's  voice  is  never  heard :  apart, 
And  scarce  permitted,  guarded,  veiled,  to  move. 
She  yields  to  one  her  person  and  her  heart, 
Tamed  to  her  cage,  nor  feels  a  wish  to  rove : 
For,  not  unhappy  in  her  master's  love, 
And  joyful  in  a  mother's  gentlest  cares. 
Blest  cares  !   all  other  feelings  far  above  ! 
Herself  more  sweetly  rears  the  babe  she  bears, 
Who  never  quits  the  breast,  no  meaner  passion  shares. 

Lxn. 

In  mavble-paved  pavilion,  where  a  spring 
Of  living  water  from  the  centre  rose, 
Whose  bubbling  did  a  genial  freshness  fli)ig. 
And  soft  voluptuous  couches  breathed  repose, 
Ali  reclined,  a  man  of  war  and  woes  ; 
Yet  in  his  lineaments  ye  cannot  trace. 
While  Gentleness  her  milder  radiance  throws 
Along  that  aged  venerable  face. 
The  deeds  that  lurk  beneath,  and  stain  him  with  disgrace. 

Lxni. 

It  is  not  that  yon  hoary  lengthening  beard 
111  suits  the  passions  which  belong  to  youth  ; 
Love  conquers  age--so  Hafiz  hath  averred, 
So  sings  the  Teian,  and  he  sings  in  sooth — 
But  crimes  that  scorn  the  tender  voice  of  Ruth, 
Beseeming  all  men  ill,  but  most  the  man 
In  years,  have  marked  him  with  a  tjger's  tooth  ; 
Blood  follows  l)lood,  and  through  their  mortal  spaa. 
In  bloodier  acts  conclude  those  who  with  blood  begun. 

LXIV. 

'Mid  many  things  most  new  to  ear  and  eye 

The  pilgrim  rested  here  his  weary  feet, 

And  gazed  around  on  Moslem  luxury. 

Till  quickly  wearied  with  that  spacious  seat 

Of  Wealth  and  Wantonness,  the  choice  retreat 

Of  sated  Grandeur  from  the  City's  noise  : 

And  were  It  humbler  it  in  sooth  were  sweet  ; 

But  Peace  aliborreth  artificial  joys, 
And  Pleasure,  leagued  with  Pomp,  the  zcBt  of  both  de»tr«ys. 

LXV. 
Fierce  are  Albania's  children,  yet  they  lack 
Not  virtues,  were  those  virtues  more  mature. 
Where  is  the  foe  that  ever  saw  their  back  ? 
Who  can  so  well  the  toil  of  war  endure  ? 
Their  native  fastnesses  not  more  secure 
Thau  they  in  doubtful  time  of  troublous  ne«d  : 


PILGRIMAGE,  163 

Their  wvnth  how  deadly  !  but  their  friendship  sure, 
When  Gratitude  or  Valour  bids  them  bleed, 
Unshaken  rushing  on  where'er  their  chief  rnay  lead. , 

LXVI. 

Childe  Harold  saw  them  in  their  chieftain's  tower 
Thronging  to  war  in  splendour  and  success  ; 
And  after  viewed  them,  when,  within  their  power, 
Himself  awhile  the  victim  of  distress; 
Thatsaddening  hour  when  bad  men  hotlier  press  : 
But  these  did  shelter  him  beneath  their  roof. 
When  less  barbarians  would  have  cheered  him  less, 
And  fellow  country- men  have  stood  aloof — (27) 
In  aught  that  tries  the  heart  how  few  withstand  the  proof  I 

LXVII. 
It  chanced  that  adverse  winds  once  drove  his  bark 
Full  on  the  coast  of  Suli's  shaggy  shore, 
When  all  around  was  desolate  and  dark  ; 
To  land  was  perilous,  to  sojourn  more  ; 
Yet  for  awhile  the  mariners  forbore. 
Dubious  to  trust  where  treachery  might  lurk  : 
At  length  they  ventured  forth,  though  doubting  sore 
That  those  who  loathe  alike  the  Frank  and  Turk 
Might  once  again  renew  their  ancient  butcher-work. 

LXVIII. 

Vain  fear  !  the  Suliotes  stretched  the  welcome  hand. 
Led  them  o'er  rocks  and  past  the  dangero\is  swamp. 
Kinder  than  polished  slaves,  though  not  so  bland. 
And  piled  the  hearth,  and  wrung  their  garments  damp, 
And  filled  the  bowl,  and  trimmed  the  cheerful  lamp. 
And  spread  their  fare;  though  homely,  all  they  had  : 
Such  conduct  bears  Philanthropy's  rare  stamp — 
To  rest  the  weary  and  to  soothe  the  sad, 
Doth  lesson  happier  men,  and  shames  at  least  the  bad* 

LXIX. 

It  came  to  pass,  that  wht;n  he  did  address 
Himself  to  quit  at  length  this  mountain-land. 
Combined  marauders  half-way  barred  egress. 
And  wasted  far  and  near  with  glaive  and  brand  ; 
And  therefore  did  he  take  a  trusty  band 
To  traverse  Acarnania's  forest  wide, 
In  war  well  seasoned,  and  with  labours  tanned, 
'i'ill  he  did  greet  white  Achelous'  tide. 
And  from  his  further  bank  ^tolia's  wolds  espied. 

LXX. 

Where  lone  Utraikey  forms  its  circling  cove, 

And  weary  waves  retire  to  gleam  at  rest. 

How  brown  the  foliage  of  the  green  hill'f  jrovo, 


161  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

NodJiiij^  at  midnight  o'er  the  calm  bay's  breast, 
As  winds  come  lisrhtly  whispering  from  the  west. 
Kissing,  not  ruffling,  the  blue  deep's  serene  : — 
Here  Harold  was  received  a  welcome  guest ; 
Nor  did  he  pass  unmoved  the  gentle  scene, 
For  many  a  joy  could  he  from  Night's  soft  presence  glean. 

LXXI 

On  the  smooth  shore  the  night-fires  brightly  blazed. 
The  feast  was  done,  the  red  wine  circling  fast,  (28) 
And  he  that  unawares  had  there  ygazcd 
With  gaping  wonderment  had  stared  aghast; 
For  ere  night's  midmost,  stillest  hour  was  past, 
The  native  revels  of  the  troop  began  ; 
Each  Palikar  (29)  his  sabre  from  him  cast. 
And  bounding  hand  in  hand,  man  linked  to  man. 
Yelling  their  uncouth  dirge,  long  daunced  the  kirtled  clan. 

Lxxir. 

Childe  Harold  at  a  little  distance  stood 
And  viewed,  but  not  displeased,  the  revelrie, 
Nor  hated  harmless  mirth,  however  rude  : 
In  sooth,  it  was  no  vulgar  sight  to  see 
Their  barbarous,  j'et  their  not  indecent,  glee  ; 
And,  as  the  ftames  along  their  faces  gleamed. 
Their  gestures  nimble,  dark  eyes  flashing  free. 
The  long  wild  locks  that  to  their  girilles  streamed. 
While  thus  in  concert  they  thislay  half  sang,  halfscreamed:(30) 

1. 

(.31)  Tambourgi  !  Tambourgi !   •  thy 'larum  afar 
Gives  hope  to  the  valiant,  and  promise  of  war  ; 
All  the  sons  of  the  mountains  arise  at  the  note, 
Chjmariot,  lUyrian,  and  dark  Suliote ! 

2. 

Oh  !  who  is  more  brave  than  a  dark  Suliote, 

Id  his  snowy  camese  and  his  shaggy  capote  ! 

To  the  wolf  and  the  vulture  he  leaves  his  wild  flock, 

And  descends  to  the  plain  like  the  stream  from  the  rock. 

3. 

Shall  the  sons  of  Chimari,  who  never  forgive 
The  fault  of  a  friend,  bid  an  enemy  live  ? 
Let  those  guns  so  unerring  such  vengeance  forego  ? 
What  mark  is  so  fair  as  the  breast  of  a  foe  ? 

•Drummer. 


PILGRIMACE.  165 

4. 

Mncedonia  sends  forth  her  invincible  race  ; 
For  a  time  they  abandon  the  cave  and  the  chase  : 
But  those  scarfs  of  blood-red  shall  be  redder,  before 
The  sabre  is  sheathed  and  the  battle  is  o'er. 

5. 
Then  the  pirates  of  Parp:a  that  dwell  by  the  wares, 
And  teach  the  pale  franks  what  it  is  to  be  slaves, 
Shall  leave  on  the  beach  the  loner  galley  a"*^  oar, 
And  track  to  his  covert  the  captive  on  shore. 

6. 

I  ask  not  the  pleasures  that  riches  supply, 
My  sal  re  «hall  win  what  the  feeble  must  buy  ; 
Shall  win  the  youno^ bride  with  her  long  flowing  hair, 
Ajid  manT  a  maid  from  her  mother  shall  tear. 


I  love  tha  fair  face  of  the  maid  in  her  youth. 
Her  caresses  shall  lull  me,  her  music  shall  sooth  ; 
Lot  her  brin^  from  the  chamber  her  many-toned  lyre, 
And  slug  ui  &  song  on  the  fall  of  her  sire. 

8. 

Remember  the  moment  when  Previsa  fell,  (32) 
The  shrieks  of  the  conquered,  the  conquerors'  yell ; 
The  rools  that  we  fired,  and  the  plunder  we  shared, 
The  wealthy  we  slaughtered,  the  lovely  we  spared. 

9. 

I  talk  not  of  mercy,  I  talk  not  of  fear. 
He  neither  must  know  who  would  serve  the  Vizier  ; 
Since  the  dfiys  of  our  prophet  the  Crescent  ne'er  saw 
A  chief  ever  glorious  like  Ali  Pashaw. 

10. 

Dark  Muchtar  his  son  to  the  Danube  is  sped. 

Let  the  yellow-haired*   Giaoursf  view  his  horsetailj  with 

dread  ; 
When  his  Delhis§  come  dashing  in  blood  o'er  the  banks  ! 
How  few  shall  escape  from  the  Muscovite  ranks  ! 


•  Yellow  is  the  epithet  given  by  the  Russians. 
+  Infidel. 

I   Horse-tails  are  the  in.-ignia  of  a  Pacha. 
§  Horsemen,  answering  to  our  forlorn  hope. 


1«8  CIIILDE  HAROLD'S 

11. 

Selictar  !•  unsheath  then  our  chief's  scimitar  ; 
Tambourgi  I   thy  'laiuni  ii,-ives  promise  of  war, 
Ve  mountains,  that  see  us  descend  to  the  shore. 
Shall  view  us  as  victors,  or  view  us  no  more  ! 

Lxxrii, 

Fair  Greece  !  sad  relic  of  departed  worth  !  (a.l) 
fnimurtal,  though  no  more  :  thouifii  fallen,  ffreat ! 
Who  now  shall  lead  tliy  scattered  children  forth, 
And  long  accustomed  bondage  uncreate  ? 
Not  such  thy  sons  who  whilome  did  await, 
Tlie  hopeless  warriors  of  a  willing  doom, 
In  bleak  Thermopylae's  sepulchral  strait— 
Oh  !  who  that  gallant  spirit  shall  resume,  ^ 
Leap  from  Eurotas'  banks,  and  call  thee  from  the  tomb  ? 

Lxxrv. 

Spirit  of  freedom  !  when  on  Phyle's  brow  (34) 
Thou  sat'st  with  Thrasybulus  and  his  train, 
Couldst  thou  forebode  the  dismal  hour  which  now 
Dims  the  green  beauties  of  thine  Attic  plaiu  ? 
Not  thirty  tyrants  now  enforce  the  chain, 
But  every  carle  can  lord  it  o'er  thy  land  ; 
Nor  rise  thy  sons,  but  idly  rail  in  vain, 
Trembling  beneath  the  scourge  of  Turkish  hand. 
From  birth  till  death  enslaved  ;  in  word,  in  deed  unmanned. 

LXXV. 

In  all  save  form  alone,  how  changed  !  and  who 
That  marks  the  fire  still  sparkling  in  each  eye, 
Who  but  would  deem  their  bosoms  burned  anew 
With  thy  unquenched  beam,  lost  Liberty  ! 
And  many  dream  withal  the  hour  is  nigh 
That  gives  them  back  their  fathers'  heritage : 
For  foreign  arms  and  aid  they  fondly  sigh. 
Nor  solely  dare  encounter  hostile  rage. 
Or  tear  their  name  defiled  from  Slavery's  mournful  page. 

LXXVI. 

Hereditary  bondsmen  !  know  ye  not 
Who  would  be  free  themselves  must  strike  the  blow 
By  their  right  arms  the  conquest  must  be  wrought  ? 
Will  Gaul  or  Muscovite  redress  ye  ?  no  ! 
True,  they  may  lay  your  proud  despoilers  low, 
But  not  for  you  will  Freedom's  altars  flame. 
Shades  of  the  Helots  !   triumph  o'er  your  foe  ! 
Greece  !  change  thy  lords,  thy  state  is  still  the  same  ; 
Thy  glorious  day  is  o'er,  but  not  thine  years  of  shame. 

•  Sword-bearer. 


PILGRIMAGE.  IttT 

LXXVII. 

The  city  won  for  Allah  from  the  Giaour, 

The  Giaoiir  from  Othman's  race  ai^ain  may  wrest  ; 

And  the  Serai's  impenetrable  tower 

Receive  the  fiery  Frank,  her  former  giiest ;  (35) 

On  Wahub's  rebel  brood  who  dared  divest 

The  (36)  prophet's  tomb  of  all  its  pious  spoil, 

May  wind  their  path  of  blood  along  the  West ; 

But  ne'er  will  Freedom  seek  this  iated  soil. 
But  slave  succeed  to  slave  through  years  of  endless  toil. 

LXXVIII. 

Vet  mark  their  mirth — ere  lenten  dajs  begin, 

That  penance  which  their  holy  rites  prepare 

To  shrive  from  man  his  wei^jht  of  mortal  sin. 

By  daily  abstinence  and  nightly  prayer  ; 

But  ere  his  sackcloth  garb  Repentance  wear, 

Some  days  of  joyaunce  are  decreed  to  all. 

To  take  of  pleasaunce  each  his  secret  share, 

In  motley  robe  to  dance  at  masking  ball. 
And  join  the  mimic  train  of  merrj-  Carnival. 

LAXIX. 

And  whose  more  rife  with  merriment  than  thine, 
Oh   Slamhoul ;  once  the  empress  of  their  reign  ? 
Though  turbans  now  pollute  Sophia's  shrinej 
And  Greece  her  very  altars  eyes  in  vain  : 
(Alas  !   her  woes  will  still  pervade  my  strain  !) 
Gay  were  her  minstrels  once,  for  free  her  throng. 
All  felt  the  common  joy  they  now  must  feign, 
Xor  oft  I've  seen  such  sight,  nor  heard  such  song, 
As  wooed  the  eye,  and  thrilled  the  Bosphorus  along. 

LXXX. 

Ivoud  was  the  lightsome  tumult  of  the  shore, 
Oit  Music  changed,  but  never  ceased  her  tone. 
And  timely  echoed  back  the  measured  oar. 
And  rippling  waters  made  a  pleasant  moan  : 
The  Queen  of  tides  on  high  consenting  shone. 
And  when  a  transient  bree/e  swept  o'er  the  wave, 
'Twas  as  if  darting  from  her  heavenly  throne, 
A  brighter  glance  her  lurm  reflected  gave, 
Till  sparkling  billows  seemed  to  light  the  banks  they  lave. 

LXXXI. 
(ilnnced  many  a  light  ciiii[ue  along  the  foum. 
Danced  on  the  shore  the  daiigiiters  of  the  land, 
Ne  thought  had  man  or  maid  of  rest  or  home. 
While  many  a  languid  eye  and  thrilling  hand 
Exchanged  the  look  few  bosoms  may  withstand. 
Or  gently  prest,  returned  the  pressure  still : 


lOS  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

Oh  Love  !   young  Love !  bound  in  thy  rosy  baud, 
Let  safic  or  oytiic  prattle  as  he  will, 
7'heso  hours,  and  only  these,  redeem  Life's  years  of  ill ! 

LXXXIL 

But,  midst  the  throng  in  merry  masquerade, 
Lurk  there  no  hearts  that  throb  with  secret  pain. 
Even  through  the  closest  searment  hall  betrayed? 
To  such  the  gentle  murmurs  of  the  main 

,    Seem  to  re-echo  all  they  mourn  in  vain  ; 
To  such  the  gladness  ol  the  gamesome  crowd 
Is  source  of  wayward  thought  and  stern  disdain  : 
How  do  tliey  loathe  the  laughter  idly  loud. 

And  long  to  change  the  robe  of  revel  for  the  shroud  I 

LXXXHL 

This  must  he  feel,  the  true-born  son  of  Greece, 
If  Greece  one  true-born  patriot  still  can  boast : 
Not  such  as  prate  of  war,  but  skulk  in  peace, 
The  bondsman's  peace,  who  sighs  for  all  he  losil. 
Yet  with  smooth  smile  his  tyrant  can  accost. 
And  wield  the  slavish  sickle,  not  the  sword: 
Ah  !   Greece  !  they  love  thee  letist  who  owe  thee  mo»l ; 
Their  birth,  their  blood,  and  that  sublime  record 
Of  hero  feires,  who  shame  thy  now  degenerate  hord«  ! 

LXXXIV. 

When  riseth  Lacedemon's  hardihood. 
When  Thebes  Epaminondas  rears  again, 
When  Athens'  children  are  with  hearts  endued, 
When  Grecian  mothers  shall  give  birth  to  men, 
Then  may'st  thou  be  restored  ;  but  not  till  then. 
A  thousand  years  scarce  serve  to  Ibrm  a  stale  ; 
An  hour  may  laj-  it  in  the  dust :  and  when 
Can  man  its  shattered  splendour  renovate, 
Recal  its  virtues  back,  and  vanquish  Time  and  Fata  ? 

LXXXV. 

Aud  yet  how  lovely  in  thine  age  of  woe, 
Land  of  lost  gods  and  godlike  men  !  art  thou  ! 
Thy  viiles  of  ever-green,  thy  hills  of  snow  (."H) 
Proclaim  thee  Nature's  varied  favourite  now  ; 
Thy,  f.ines,  tliy  temples  to  thy  surface  bow, 
i^)mmingling  slowly  with  heroic  earth, 
Broke  by  the  share  of  every  rustic  plough; 
So  perish  n.oMumeuts  of  mortal  birth, 
So  j»eris;i  all  in  turn,  save  well-recorded  Worth  ; 

LXXXVL 

Save  where  some  solitary  rolunin  mourns 
Above  its  prostrate  brethren  of  the  cave;  (iS^ 
Sa»e  where  Tvitonia's  airy  shrine  adorns 


PILGRIMAGE.  U 

Colonna's  cliffs,  and  gleams  along  the  wave ; 
Save  o'er  some  warrior's  haU'-lorgotten  grave, 
Where  the  gray  stones  and  unmolested  grass 
Ages,  but  not  oblivion,  feeblj-  brave, 
While  strangers  only  not  regardless  pass. 
Lingering  like  me,  perchance,  to  gaze,  and  sigh  "Alas!" 

LXXXVIf. 

Yet  are  thy  .skies  as  blue,  thy  crags  as  wild  ; 
Sweet  are  thy  groves,  and  verdant  are  thy  fields, 
Thine  olive  ripe  as  when  Minerva  smiled, 
And  still  his  honied  wealth   Hymetlus  yields  ; 
There  the  blithe  bee  his  fragrant  fortress  builds ; 
The  freeborn  wanderer  of  thy  mountain-air ; 
Apollo  still  thy  long,  long  summer  gilds. 
Still  in  his  beam  Mendeli's  msrbles  glare ; 
Art,  Glory,  Freedom  fail,  but  Nature  still  is  fair. 

Lxxxviir. 

Where'er  we  tread  'tis  haunted,  holy  ground  ; 
No  earth  of  thine  is  lost  in  vulgar  mould, 
But  one  vast  realm  of  wonder  spreads  around, 
And  all  the  Muse's  tales  seem  truly  told. 
Till  the  sense  aches  with  gazing  to  behold 
The  scenes  our  earliest  dreiims  have  dwelt  upon  ; 
Each  hill  and  dale,  each  deepening  glen  and  wolJ 
Defies  the  power  which  crushed  thy  temples  gone  ; 
Age  shakes  Athena's  tower,  but  spares  gray  Marathon, 

LXXXfX. 

The  sun,  the  soil,  but  not  the  slave,  the  same ; 
Unchanged  in  all  except  its  foreign  lord — 
Preserves  alike  its  bounds  and  boundless  fame 
The  Battle-field,  where  Persia's  victim  horde 
First  bowed  beneath  the  brunt  of  Hellas'  sword, 
As  on  the  morn  to  distant  Glory  denr. 
When  Marathon  became  a  magic  word  ;  (39) 
Which  uttered,  to  the  hearer's  eye  appear 
The  camp,  the  Jiost,  the  fight,  the  conqueror's  career. 

A'C. 

The  flying  Mede,  his  shaftless  broken  bow ; 
The  fiery  Greek,  his  red  pursuing  spear, 
Mountains  above.   Earth's,  Ocean's  plain  below; 
Death  in  the  front,  Destruction  in  the  rear! 
Such  was  the  scene — what  now  remaineth  here? 
Wiiat  sacred  trophy  marks  the  hallowed  ground, 
Recording  Freedom's  smile  and  Asia's  tear  ! 
The  rifled  urn,  the  violated  mo\nuI, 
The  dust  thy  courser's  hoof,  rude  stranger!  spurns  arouHj* 

P 


no  CIIILUE  HAROLD>.>i 

XCI. 

"\'ct  1o  111?  romnanls  of  iliy  spletnloiir  past 
Shall  iiilnrims,  pensive,  liiil  uiuveaiied,  throne;; 
Lonp:  shall  Ihe  voyager,  vvilh  th'  Ionian  blast, 
Ilaii  the  liri,ii:lit  clinie  of  battle  and  of  sons; 
Long  shall  thine  annals  anil  in)niortal  tongue 
riirwiUi  thy  fame  the  youth  of  many  a  shor*» ; 
Boast  of  the  aged  !  lesson  of  the  young ! 
"Which  sages  venerate  and  bards  adore, 
As  Pallas  and  the  Muse  unveil  their  awful  lor«. 

XCII. 

The  parted  bosom  clings  to  wonted  home. 
If  aught  that's  kim'.red  cheer  the  welcome  health  ; 
He  that  is  lonely  hither  let  him  roam,     ^ 
And  gaze  complacent  on   c^geiiial  earth, 
(ireece  in  no  lightsome  land  of  social  mirth; 
IJut  he  whom  Sadness  sootheth  may  abide, 
And  scarce  regret  the  region  of  his  birth, 
When  wandering  slow  by  Deli)hi's  sacred  side, 
Or  gazing  o'er  the  plains  where  Greek  and  Persian  diaJ. 

xcni. 

Let  such  approach  this  consecrated  land, 

And  pass  iiv  peace  along  the  magic  waste  : 

liut  spare  its  rcjics — let  no  busy  hand 

Deface  the  scenes,  already  how  defaced  ! 

Not  for  such  purpose  were  these  altars  placed  : 

Revere  the  remnants  nations  once  revered  : 

So  may  our  country's  name  be  undisgraced, 

So  may'st  thou  prosper  where  thy  youth  was  roared. 

By  every  honest  joy  of  love  and  life  endeared  I 

XCIV. 
For  thee,  who  thus  in  too  protracted  song- 
Has  soo'hed  thine  idlesse  with  inglorious  lays, 
Soon  shall  thy  voice  be  lost  amid  the  throng 
Of  louder  minstrels  in  these  later  da3s  ; 
To  such  resign  the  strife  for  fading  hays — 
111  may  such  contest  now  the  spirit  move 
Which  heeds  nor  keen  reproach  nor  partial  praise  ; 
Since  cold  cacii  kinder  heart  that  might  approve, 

And  none  are  lelt  to  please  when  none  are  lelt  to  love. 

xcv. 

Thou  too  art  gone,  thou  loved  and  lovely  one  ! 
Whom  youth  and  youth's  aliection  bovind  to  nie  ; 
Who  did  lor  me  what  none  beside  ha\e  done, 
Nor  ihrank  from  one  albeit  unwoiHiy  thee. 
V'/I.at  in  n.y  being?  thou  hast  ceased  to  l)e  .' 
Ntr  stai*(  to  welcome  here  thy  vasdtrt.r  kon;t», 


IMLGIUMAGE.  171 

Who  niounis  oVr  hours  which  we  no  more  shall  see- 
VV'oiild  they  lunl  never  been,  or  wer«  to  come  ! 
Would  he  h;iil  ne'er  returneil  to  lind  fresh  causa  to  rjatn  ! 

XCVL 

Oh  !  ever  lovint;,  loveh",  and  helovfd  ! 
Mow  selftsli  Sorrow  poiulers  on  the  past,  ' 

And  clinics  to  tlion;,^;its  now  better  lar  removed! 
Hut  Time  shall  tear  thy  shadow  from  me  hist. 
All  thou  coiild'sl  have  of  iinne,  slevn  Death  !  thou  bast ; 
Tile,  parent,  friend,  and  now  tiie  more  than  friend  : 
Ne'er  yet  for  one  thine  arrows  tiew  so  fust. 
And  .!?rief  with  t^rief  contiiuiing  still  to  blend, 
Ilatli  snatched  the  little  joy  that  life  had  yet  to  lend. 

XCVII. 

Then  must  I  [dnnge  again  into  the  crowd, 
And  follow  all  that  I'eui'e  disdains  to  seek  ? 
U'hei'e  Revel  culls,  and  Lmi^hter,  vainly  loud, 
Fhish  to  the  heart,  distorts  tho  hollow  cheek, 
To  leave  the  fla^ffins  spirit  doubly  weak  ; 
Still  o'er  the  features,  which  perltuce  they  cht'er. 
To  feii^n  the  pleasure  or  conceal  the  piqu '  ; 
Smiles  fovni  the  cliannel  of  n  future  t;ar, 
Or  raiae  the  wrilhill^;•  lip  with  wcU-Jissembled  sneer. 

XCVIII. 

What  is  the  worst  of  woes  tinit  wait  on  asje  ? 
What  stamps  tlic  wrinkle  deeper  on  th:^  brow  ? 
To  view  each  loved  one  blott.'d  from  liie's  pac;c', 
And  be  alone  on  earlii,  as  I  am  ikjv,-. 
]3efore  the  Chastener  lamildy  let  me  bow, 
O'er  hearts  divided  and  o'er  tiopes  deslrojed  : 
Roll  on,  vain  days  !   full  reckless  may  ye  tkiw, 
Pince  Time  hatli  reft  whate'er  my  soul  enjoyed, 
And  with  the  ills  of  Kid  mine  earlier  years  alloyed. 


1T2  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


CANTO    III. 


I. 

Ik  thy  face  like  thy  mother's,  my  fair  child  ! 
Alia  !  sole  iluuafhter  of  my  bouse  and  heart  ? 
When  hist  I  saw  thy  yoiintf  blue  eyes  they  smiled. 
And  then  we  parted, — not  as  now  we  part, 
But  with  a  hope. — 

Awaking  with  a  start,' 
The  waters  heave  around  me  ;  and  on  high 
The  winds  lift  tip  their  voices;  I  depart, 
Whither  I  know  not  ;  but  the  hour'*  gone  by, 
When  Albion's  lessening  shores  could  grieve  or  glud  mint 
eye. 

II. 

Once  more  upon  the  waters !  yet  once  more  ! 
And  the  waves  bound  beneath  me  as  a  steed 
That  knows  his  rider.     Welcome  to  their  roar ! 
Swift  be  their  guidance,  wheresoe'er  it  lead  ! 
Though  the  strain'd  mast  should  quiver  as  a  reed, 
And  the  rent  canvas  fluttering  strew   the  gale, 
Slill  must  I  on  ;  for  I  am  as  a  weed. 
Flung  from  the  rock,  on  Ocean's  foam,  to  sail 
Where'er  the  surge  may  sweep,  the  tempest's  breath  prevail  • 

III. 

In  my  youth's  summer  I  did  sing  of  One, 
The  wandering  outlaw  of  his  own  dark  mind ; 
Again  I  seize  the  theme  then  but  begun. 
And  bear  it  with  me,  as  the  rushing  wind 
Bears  the  cloud  onwards:   In  that  Tale  I  find 
The  furrows  of  long  thought,  and  dried-up  tears, 
Which,  ebbing,  leave  a  sterile  track  behind, 
O'er  which  all  heavily  the  journeying  years 
Plod  the  last  sands  of  life, — where  not  a  flower  appears. 

IV. 

Since  my  young  days  of  passion — joy,  or  pain. 
Perchance  my  heart  and  harp  have  lost  a  string. 
And  both  may  jar  :  it  may  be,  that  in  vain 
I  would  es-jiy  as  I  have  sung  to  sing. 
Y'et  lhouf?h  a  dreary  strain,  to  this  I  cling  ; 
So  liiat  it  wean  me  from  the  weary  dream 
Of  selfish  grief  or  gladness — so  it  lling 


PILGRLMAGE.  ITS 

ForgetfulneiS  around  nie— it  sliall  seem 
To  me,  though  to  none  else,  a  not  ungrateful  theme. 

y. 

He,  who  grown  agetl  in  this  world  of  woe, 
In  deeds,  not  years,  piercing  the  deiiliis  of  life, 
So  tlKil  r.'j  wonder  waits  him  ;  nor  below 
Can  love,  or  sorrow,  fame,  ambition,  strife, 
Cut  to  liis  heart  again  with  tlii;  keen  Icnife 
Of  silent,  sliarp  endiirance  :   he  can  tell 
M'hy  tiiought  seeks  refuge  in  lone  caves,  yet  rife, 
With  airy  images,  and  shapes  wiiich  dwell 
Still  unimpaired,  though  old,  in  the  soul's  haunted  cell. 

VI. 

'Tis  to  create,  and  in  creating  live 

A  being  more  intense,  that  we  endow 

With  form  our  lancy,  gaining  as  we  give 

The  life  we  image,  even  as  F  do  now. 

\Vhatam  I?  Nothing;  but  not  so  art  thou. 

Sou!  of  my  thouglit  !   with  wliom  I   traverse  earth, 

Invisible  i)ut  gazing,  as  I  glow 

Mixi'd  with  tliy  spirit,  blended  willi  thy  birth. 
And  feeling  still  with  thee  in  my  crushed  feeliiigs' dearth. 

VII. 

Vet  must  I  think  less  wildly :  —  I  /laiuj  thought 

Too  long  and  darkly,  till  my  brain  became,  > 

In  its  own  eddy  boiling  and  o\-r«ruught, 

A  whirling  gulf  of  phantasy  and  Uame  : 

And  thus,  untaught  in  youth  my  heart  to  tame, 

Mysprhigsof  lile  were  poisoneL.     'Tis  too  late! 

Yet  am  I  changed  ;  though  still  enough  the  same 

In  strength  to  bear  what  time  can  not  ab;ile. 
And  feed  on  biltiT  iruits  witliunt  accusing  Fate. 

VIII. 

Something  too  much  of  this:— hut  now  'lis  pa.,t 
And  the  spell  closes  with  its  .>-ilent  seal. 
Long  absent  H.vaoLi)  re-appears  at  la>l  ; 
He  of  the  breast  which  fain  no  more  would  feel, 
Wruti'^r  with  the  wounds  which  kill  not,  but  ne'er  heal ; 
Vet  TniM,  wh  >  changes  all,  .'lai  altered  him 
In  soui  and  a-pect  as  in  age  ;  jears  steal 
Fire  from  tiie  mind  as  vigour  from  the  lindi ; 
And  life's  enchanted  cup  but  sparkles  near  the  brim. 

IX. 

His  bad  been  quaOed  too  quickly,   ml  h-  i'aiwA 
The  dregs  were  wormwood  ;   but  he  filled  again. 
And  from  a  purer  fount,   on  liolier  gionnd. 
And  deemed  its  spring  perpetual ;  i;'u(  in  vaii:  1 


174  CHILDE    HAROLD'S 

Slill  roiiti;!  him  cliinrr  invisibly  a  chain 
Whicl)  trailed  lor  ever,  letterinj^  though  unseen, 
Aiu!  heavy  Ihough  it  clanked  not ;  worn  with  pain, 
WhiLii  i)ined  although  it  spoke  not,  and  grew  keen. 
Entering  with  every  step,  he  took,  through  many  a  scea*. 

X. 

Secure  in  guarded  coldness,  he  had  mixed 
Again  in  fancied  saiVty  with  his  kind, 
And  deemed  his  spirit  now  so  tirmly  fixed 
And  sheathed  with  an  invulnerable  mind. 
That,  il  no  joy,  no  sorrow  lurked  behind  ; 
And  lie,  as  one,  might  midst  the  many  stand 
Unheeded,  searching  through  the  crowd  to  find 
Fit  speculation!  such  as  in  strange  land     . 
lie  found  in  wonder-works  of  God  and  Nature's  hand. 

XI. 

But  who  can  view  the  ripened  rose,  nor  seek 
To  wear  it  ?  who  can  curiously  behold 
The  smoothness  and  the  sheen  of  beauty's  cheek, 
Nor  feel  the  heart  can  never  all  grow  old  ? 
Who  can  contemplate  Fame  through  clouds  unfold 
The  star  which  rises  o'er  her  steep,  nor  climb  ? 
Harold,  once  more  within  the  vortex,  rolled 
On  with  the  giddy  circle,  chasing  Time, 
Yet  with  a  nobler  aim  than  in  his  youth's  fond  prime. 

XII. 

But  soon  he  knew  himself  the  most  unfit 
Of  men  to  herd  with  Man  ;  with  whom  he  held 
Little  in  common  ;  untaught  to  submit 
IJis  thoughts  to  others,  though  his  soul  was  quelled 
In  youth  by  his  own  thoughts;  still  uncompelled, 
He  would  not  yield  dominion  of  his  mind 
To  spirits  against  whom  his  own  rebelled  ; 
Proud  though  in  desolation  ;  which  could  find 
A  life  within  itself,  to  breathe  without  mankind. 

XIII. 

Where  rose  the  mountains,  there  to  him  were  friends  ; 
Where  rolled  the  ocean,  thereon  was  his  home  ; 
Where  a  blue  sky,  anil  glowing  clime,  extends, 
He  had  the  passion  and  the  power  to  roam  ; 
The  desert,  forest,  cavern,  breaker's  foam. 
Were  unto  him  companionship  ;  tliey  spake 
A  mutual  language,  clearer  than  the  tome 
Ol  his  land's  tongue,  which  he  would  oft  forsake 
For  Nature's  pages  gla.-sed  by  sunbeams  on  the  lake. 

XIV, 
Like  the  Chaldean,  he  could  watch  the  stars. 


PILGRIMAGE.  lU 

Till  he  had  peopled  them  with  beings  bright 
As  their  own  beams  ;  and  earth,  and  earth-born  jnr«, 
And  human  frailties,  were  forgotten  quite : 
Could  he  have  kept  his  spirit  to  that  flight 
He  had  been  happy;  but  this  clay  will  sink 
Its  spark  immortal,  envying  it  the  light 
To  which  it  mounts,  as  it  to  break  the  link 
That  keeps  us  irom  yon  heaven  which  woos  us  to  its  brink. 

XV. 
But  in  Man's  dwellings  he  became  a  thing 
Restless  and  worn,  and  stern  and  wearisome, 
Drooped  as  a  wild-born  falcon  with  dipt  wing, 
To  whom  the  boundless  air  alone  were  home  : 
Then  came  his  fit  again,  which  to  o'ercome, 
As  eagerly  the  barr'd-up  bird  will  beat 
His  breast  and  beak  against  his  wiry  dome 
Till  the  blood  tinge  his  plumage,  so  the  heat 
Of  his  impeded  soul  would  through  his  bosom  eat. 

XVI. 
Self-exiled  Harold  wanders  forth  again, 
With  nought  of  hope  left,  but  with  less  of  gloom  ; 
The  very  knowledge  that  he  lived  in  vain, 
That  all  was  over  on  this  side  the  tomb. 
Had  made  Despair  a  smilingness  assume, 
Which,  though  'twere  wild,— as  on  the  plundered  wreck 

When  mariners  would  madly  meet  their  doom 

With  draughts  intemperate  on  the  sinking  deck,— 
Did  yet  inspire  a  cheer  which  he  forebore  to  check. 

XVII. 

Stop! — for  thy  tread  is  on  an  Empire's  dust ! 

An  Earthquake's  spoil  Is  sepulchred  below  ! 

Is  the  spot  marked  with  no  colossal  bust  ? 

Nor  column  tropliied  lor  triumphal  show? 

None  ;  but  the  moral's  trutli  tells  simpler  so. 

As  the  ground  was  before,  thus  let  it  be ; — 

How  that  red  rain  hath  made  the  harvest  grow  ! 

And  is  this  all  the  world  hath  gained  by  thee, 
Thou  first  and  last  ol  fields  !   king-making  Victor)  ? 

xvni. 

And  Harold  stands  upon  this  place  of  skulls. 
The  grave  of  France,  the  deadly  Waterloo  ! 
How  in  an  hour  tlip  power  which  gave,  annuls 
Its  gifts,  transferring  fame  as  fleeting  too  ! 
In  ''  pride  of  place"  (1)  here  last  the  eagle  flew. 
Then  tore  with  bloody  talon  the  rent  plain. 
Pierced  by  the  shaft  of  bandeil  nations  through  ; 
Ambition's  life  and  labours  all  were  \ain  ; 
H«  wears  th«  shattered  links  of  the  world's  broken  chain. 


179  CHILDE    HAROLD'S 

XIX. 

Fit  retribution  !  Gaul  may  champ  the  bit 
And  foam  in  fetters  ; — but  is  Earth  more  free  : 
Did  nations  combat  to  make  One  submit  ; 
Or  league  to  teach  all  kinn^s  true  sovereignty? 
Wliat  !  shall  reviving  Thraldom  again  be 
The  patched-up  idol  of  enlighteneti  daj-s  ? 
Shall  we,  who  struck  the  Lion  down,  shall  we 
Pay  the  Wolf  homage  ;  prolteritig  lowly  gaze 

And  servile  kuees  to  thrones  ?  No  j  jn'ove  before  je  praiss  ! 

XX. 
If  not,  o'er  one  fallen  despot  boast  no  more  ! 
In  vain  fair  cheeks  were  furrowed  with  liot  tears 
For  Europe's  flowers  long  rooted  up  beforg 
The  trampler  of  her  vineyards  ;   in  vain  years 
Of  death,  depopulation,  bondage,  fears, 
Have  all  been  borne,  and  broken  by  the  accord 
Of  roused-up  millions  :  all  tljat  most  endears 
Glory,  is  when  tlie  myrlle  wreathes  a  sword 

Such  as  Ilarmodius  (2j  drew  on  Athens'  tyrant  lord. 

XXL 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  liy  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gatheretl  then' 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Cliivalry,  and  bright 
l"he  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men  ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily :  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell. 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again. 
And  (3)  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell  ; 
But  hush  !  hark  !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  knell ! 

XXIL 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ?— No  ;   'twas  but  tlie  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street  ; 
On  with  the  dance!  let  joy  be  unconlined  ; 
No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Vouth  and  Pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  tiyiiig  feet — 
But  hark  ! — that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 
As  it  the  clouds  its  chIio  would  repeat;  /' 

And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before  !  ' 

Arm!  Arm!  it  is — it  is — the  cannon's  opening  roar  ! 

XXIII. 
Within  R  windowed  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain  ;  he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival. 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic  ear: 
And  when  they  smiled  because  lie  deemed  it  near. 
His  heart  more  tiuly  knew  that  pi'al  loo  well 


PILGRIMAGE.  1"" 

Which  stretched  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier, 

And  roused  the  veii;^e,iiice  blood  alone  could  quell  ; 

He  rushed  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell. 

XXIV. 
Ah  !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  hut  an  hour  ago 
Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  ami  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated  ;  who  could  gues* 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes. 

Since  upon  nights  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise  ? 

XXV. 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste  :  the  steed. 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed. 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war ; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star ; 
While  thronged  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering,  with  white  lips — "  The  foe !  They  come !  thej? 
come!" 

XXVI. 

And  wild  and  high  the  "  Cameron's  gathering"  rose  ! 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's  hills 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes:— - 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills. 
Savage  and  shrill !     But  with  the  breath  which  fiUf 
Their  mountain-pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 
The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years,  [ear*. 

And  (4)  Evan's,  (5)  Donald's  fame  rings  in  each  clansman'* 

XXII. 

And  Ardennes  (8)  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  natures  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves. 
Over  the  unrelurning  brave, — alas  ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valour,  rolling  on  the  foe 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and  low. 

XXVIII. 
Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Lfuit  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 


l"«  CHILDE  HAROLD'S. 

The  midniglit  brought  the  sii^nal-sound  of  strife, 
The  mom  the  marshalling  in  arms, — the  day 
Battle's  niafTnificeiilly-.slern  array  ! 
The  thiirulei-clotuls  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent, 
The  earth  is  covered  thick  wilh  olher  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heaped  and  pent, 
Rider  and  horse, — friend,  loe, — in  one  red  burial  bleut  I 

XXIX. 

Their  praise  is  hymned  b)"  loftier  harps  than  mine  j 
Yet  one  I  would  select  from  that  proitd  throng, 
Partly  because  they  blend  me  witli  his  line, 
And  partly  that  I  diil  his  sire  some  wrong, 
And  partly  that  bright  names  will  hallow  song  ; 
And  his  was  of  the  bravest,  and  when  sriowered 
The  death  bolts  deadliest  the  thinned  files  along. 
Even  where  the  thickest  of  war's  tempest  lowered 
They  reached  no  nobler  breast  than  thine,  young  galiantHownrd. 

XXX. 

There  have  been  tears  and  breaking  hearts  for  thee, 
And  mine  were  nothing  had  I  such  to  give  ; 
But  when  I  stood  beneath  the  Iresh  green  free, 
Whicli  living  waves  where  thou  didst  cease  to  live. 
And  saw  around  me  the  wild  field  revive 
With  fruits  and  fertile  promise,  and  the  Spring 
Come  forth  her  work  of  gladness  to  contrive, 
With  all  her  reckless  birds  upon  the  wing, 
1  turned  from  all  she  brought  to  those  sLe  could  not  bring.  (7) 

XXXI. 

I  turned  to  thee,  to  thousands,  of  whom  each 
And  one  as  all  a  ghastly  gap  did  make 
In  his  own  kind  and  kindred,  whom  to  teach 
Forgetfulness  were  mercy  for  their  sake  ; 
The  Archangel's  truinp,  not  Glory's,  must  awake 
Those  whom  they  thirst  for,  tho'  the  sound  of  I'anio 
May  for  a  moment  soothe,  it  cannot  slake 
The  fever  of  vain  longing,  and  the  name 
So  honoured  but  assumes  a  stronger,  bitterer  claim. 

XXXIII. 

They  mourn,  but  smile  at  length  ;  and  smiling,  niour»  : 
The  tree  will  wither  long  before  it  fall ; 
The  hull  drives  on,  though  mast  and  sail  be  torn  : 
The  roof- tree  sinks,  but  moulders  on  the  hall 
In  massy  hoariness  ;  the  ruined  wall 
Stands  when  its  wind-worn  battlements  are  gone  ; 
The  bars  survive  the  captive  they  enthral ; 
The  day  drags  thro'  tho'  storms  keep  out  the  sun  : 
And  Ihun  the  heait  will  break,  yet  brokenly  liv«  oh  : 


PILGRIMAGE.  no 

XXXIII. 

Even  as  n  broken  mirror,  which  the  p^lfiss 
In  every  CraEfment  multiplies  ;  and  makes 
A  thousand  i masses  ot"  one  tliat  was, 
The  same,  and  stili  the  more,  the  more  it  breaks  ; 
And  thus  the  heart  will  do  which  not  forsakes, 
Living  in  shattered  guise,  and  still,  and  cold. 
And  bloodless,  with  its  sleepless  sorrow,  aches. 
Yet  withers  on  till  all  without  is  old, 
Shewing  no  visible  sign,  for  such  things  are  untold. 

XXXIV. 

There  is   a  very  life  in  our  despair, 
Vitality  of  poison, — a  quick  root 
Which  feeds  these  deadly  branches  ;  for  it  wero 
As  nothing  did  we  die  ;  but  Life  will  suit 
Itself  to  Sorrow's  most  detested  fruit. 
Like  to  tlie  apples  on  the  (8)  Dead  Sea's  shore 
All  ashes  to  the  taste  :  Did  man  compute 
Existence  by  enjoyment,  and  count  o'er  {scor#. 

Sach  hours  'gainst  years  of  life — say,    would  he  uainv  tkrao- 

XXXV. 

The  Psalmist  numbered  out  the  years  of  man  : 
They  are  enough;  and  if  thy  tale  be  true. 
Thou,  who  didst  grudge  him  even  that  fleeting  spau, 
More  than  enough,  thou  fatal  Waterloo  ! 
Millions  of  tongues  record  thee,  and  anew 
Their  children's  lips  shall  echo  them,  and  say — 
"  Here,  where  the  sword  united  nations  drew, 
"  Our  conntrymen  were  warring  on  that  day  !" 
And  this  is  much,  and  all  which  will  not  pass  uway, 

XXXVI. 

There  sunk  the  greatest,  nor  the  worst  of  men. 
Whose  spirit  antitheticuilly  mixt 
One  moment  of  the  mightiest,  and  again 
On  Utile  ol)jects  with  like  firmness  fixt. 
Extreme  iii  all  things  I   hadst  tiiou  been  betwixt, 
'I'hy  throne  had  still  been  thine,  or  never  been  ; 
Tor  daring  made  thy  rise  as  fall :  thoii  scek'it 
tven  now  to  re-a>sume  the  imperial  mien. 
And  shake  again  the  worlil,  the  'I'hunderer  of  the  aoerta  ! 

XXXVII. 

Conqueror  and  captive  of  the  earth  art  Ihou  ! 
She  Irendile.s  at  thee  still,  and  th}'  wild  name 
Was  ne'er  more  bruited  In  nuMi's  minds  than  novr 
'J'hat  thou  art  rntthing,  save  the  jest  of  I'.ime, 
Whf)  wooed  thee  once,  thy  vassal,  and  b'Tann 
'fin*  flatterer  of  thy  fierceness,  till  Ihou  wbvI 


1«0  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

A  god  unto  thyself ;  nor  less  the  same 
To  the  iislouiuled  kina^Llomsall  inert, 
Who  deemed  tliee  lur  a  timewhate'er  thou  didst  assert. 

xxxviir. 

Oh,  more  or  less  than  man — in  hip;h  or  low, 
Hattlini;-  witli  nations,  tlyinsr  from  Ihe  field; 
Now  makinsj:  nionarehs'  necks  thy  ibotslool,  now 
More  than  tliy  meanest  soldier  taught  to  yield  ; 
An  empire  thou  couldst  crush,  command,  rebuild, 
But  govern  not  thy  pettiest  passion,  nor 
However  lieeply  in  men's  spirit  skilled. 
Look  throutrh  thine  own,  nor  curb  the  lust  of  war. 
Nor  learn  tlu't  tempted  Fate  will  leave  the  loftiest  star. 

XXXIX. 

Yet  well  thy  soul  Iiath  brooked  the  turning  tide 
With  that  iiiilanght  inn;i1e  philoso[ihy. 
Which,  be  it  wisdom,  coldness,  or  deej)  pride, 
Is  gall   and  wornnvootl  to  an  enemy. 
Whe/i  the  whole  host  of  hatred  ,stood  hard   by, 
To  watch  and  mock  thee  shrinking,  thou  hast  smiled 
With  a  sedate  and  all-enduring  eye  ; — 
VVhen  Fortune  fled  her  spoiled  and  favourite  child, 
He  stood  unbowed  beneath  the  ills  upon  him  piled. 

XL. 

Sager  than  in  thy  fortunes;   lor  in  them 
Ambition  steeled  thee  on  too  far  to  show, 
That  just  halitual  scorn  which  could  contemn 
Men  and  their  thoughts;  'twas  wise  to  feel,  not  so 
To  wear  it  ever  on  thy  lip  and  brow, 
And  spurn  the  instruments  thou  wert  to  use 
Till  they  were  turned  into  thine  overthrow; 
'Tis  but  a  worthless  world  to  win  or  lose; 

So  lialh  it  proved  to  thee,  and  all  such  lot  who  choose. 

XLI. 
If,  like  a  tower  \ipon  a  headlong  rock, 
Thou  hadst  been  made  to  stand  or  fall  alone. 
Such  scorn  of  man  had  helped  to  brave  the  sliock  ; 
liut  men's  thoughts  were  the  steps  which  paved  thy  throae. 
Their  admiration  thy  best  weapon  shone ; 
Tlie  part  of  Philip's  son,  was  thine,  not  then 
(Unless  aside  thy  |)urple  had  been  thrown) 
Like  stern  Diogenes  to  mock  at  men  ; 

For  sceptered  cj  nics  earth  were  far  too  wide  a  den.  (9) 

XLin 

But  quiet  to  (luick  hoscpis  !«  a  hell, 

And  tlitrc  hath  been  thy  bane  ;  there  is  a  firo 


PILGRIMAGE.  ISI 

And  motion  of  the  soul  which  will  not  dwell 
In  its  own  narrow  being,  but  aspire 
Beyond  the  fitting  medium  of  desire ; 
And,  but  once  kindled,  quenchless  evermore, 
Preys  upon  high  adventure,  nor  can  tire 
Of  aught  but  rest ;  a  lever  at  the  core, 
Fatal  to  him  who  bears,  to  all  who  ever  bore. 

XLIII. 

This  makes  the  madmen  who  have  made  men  mad 
By  their  contagion  ;  Conquerors  and  Kings, 
Founders  of  sects  and  systems,  to  whom  add 
Sophists,  Bards,  Statesmen,  all  unquiet  things 
Which  stir  too  strongly  the  soul's  secret  springs, 
And  are  themselves  the  fools  to  those  they  fool ; 
Envied,  yet  how  unenviable  !  what  stings 
Are  theirs !     One  breast  laid  open  were  a  school 
^A'liich  would  unteach  mankind  the  lust  to  shins  or  rule  : 

XLIV. 

Their  breath  is  agitation,  and  their  life 
A  storm  whereon  they  ride,  to  sink  at  last. 
And  yet  so  nursed  and  bigotted  to  strife, 
That  should  their  days,  surviving  perils  past. 
Melt  to  calm  twilight,  they  feel  overcast 
With  sorrow  and  snpineness,  and  so  die ; 
Even  as  a  flame  unled,  which  runs  to  waste 
With  its  own  flickering,  or  a  sword  laid  by 
Which  eats  into  itself,  and  rusts  ingloriously. 

XLV. 

He  who  ascends  to  mountain-tops,  shall  find 
The  loftiest  peaks  most  wrapt  in  clouds  and  snow  ; 
He  who  surpasses  or  subdues  mankind. 
Must  look  down  on  the  hate  of  those  below. 
Though  high  ab(jve  the  sun  of  glory  glow. 
And  far  beneath  the  earth  and  ocean  spread. 
Round  him  are  icy  rocks,  and  loudly  blow 
Contending  tempests  on  his  naked  head. 

And  thus  reward  the  toils  which  to  those  summits  led. 

XLVI. 
Away  with  these !  true  Wisdom's  world  will  be 
Within  its  own  creation,  or  in  thine. 
Maternal  Nature  !  for  who  teems  like  thee, 
Thus  on  the  banks  of  thy  majestic  Rhine? 
There  Harold  gazes  on  a  work  divine, 
A  blending  of  all  beauties;  streams  and  dells, 
Fruit,  foliage,  crag,  wood,  cornfield,  mountain,  Tin©, 
And  chiefless  castles  breathing  slern  farewells 

From  gray  but  leafy  walls,  where  Ruin  greenly  dwells. 

Q 


182  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

XLVII. 

And  fliere  they  sland,  as  stands  a  loffy  mind, 
Worn,  but  unstooping  to  the  baser  crowd, 
All  tentir.tless,  save  to  the  crannying  wind. 
Or  holding  dark  communion  with  the  cloud. 
There  was  a  day  when  they  were  joungaiid  proud. 
Banners  on  high,  and  battles  passed  below  ;  , 
But  they  wlio  I'ought  are  in  a  bloody  shroud, 
And  those  which  waved  are  shredle.^s  dust  ere  now. 
And  the  bleak  battlements  shall  bear  no  future  blow. 

XLVIII. 

Beneath  these  battlements,  within  those  walls. 
Power  dwelt  amidst  her  passions  ;  in  proud  state 
Each  robber  chief  upheld  his  armed  halls, 
Doing  his  evil  will,  nor  less  elate  " 

Than  mightier  heroes  of  a  longer  date. 
What  want  these  outlaws  (10)  conquerors  should  have  ? 
But  History's  purchased  page  to  call  them  great  ? 
A  wider  space,  an  ornamental  grave  ? 
Their  hopes  were  not  less  warm,  tiieir  souls  were  full  asbravu. 

XLIX. 

In  their  baronial  feuds  and  single  fields, 
AV'hat  deeds  ■of  prowess  unrecorded  died  ! 
And  Love,  which  lent  a  blazon  to  their  shields, 
With  emblems  well  devised  by  amorous  pride, 
Through  all  the  mail  of  iron  hearts  would  glide ; 
But  still  their  flame  was  fierceness,  and  drew  on 
Keen  contest  and  destruction  near  allied. 
And  many  a  tower  for  some  fair  mischief  won, 
Saw  the  discoloured  Rhjne  beneath  its  ruin  run. 

L. 

But  thou,  exulting  and  abounding  river! 
Making  thy  waves  a  blessing  as  they  flow- 
Through  banks  whose  beauty  would  endure  for  ever. 
Could  man  but  leave  thy  bright  creation  so, 
Kor  its  fair  promise  from  the  surface  mow  ^ 

With  the  sharp  scythe  of  conflict, — then  to  see 
Thy  valley  of  sweet  waters,  were  to  know 
Earth  paved  like  lieav'n  ;  and  to  seem  such  to  me 
Even  now  what  wants  thy  stream  ? —  that  it  should  Lethe  be. 

LI. 

A  thousand  battles  have  assailed  thy  banks. 
But  tliese  and  halt  their  fame  have  passed  away. 
And  Slaughter  heaped  on  high  his  weltering  ranks  ; 
Their  very  graves  are  gone,  and  what  are  they  ? 
Thy  tide  washed  down  the  blood  of  yesterday, 
And  all  was  stainless,  and  on  thy  clear  str«am 
Glassed  with  its  dancing  light  the  sunny  ray  : 


PILGRIMAGE.  18S 

But  o'er  the  blackened  memory's  blighting  dream 
Thy  waves  would  vainly  roll,  all  sweeping  as  Ihey  seem. 

LII. 
Thus  Harold  inly  said,  and  passed  along,  ■» 

Yet  not  insensibly  to  all  which  here 
Awoke  the  jocund  birtis  to  ear!;,  song 
In  glens  which  might  have  made  even  exile  dear  : 
Though  on  his  brow  were  gra\en  lines  austere, 
And  tranfiuil  sternness  which  had  ta'en  the  place 
Of  feelings  fierier  far  but  less  severe, 
Joj'  was  not  alwa3's  absent  from  his  face. 
But  o'er  it  in  such  scenes  would  steal  with  transient  trace.  . 

LIII. 

Nor  was  all  love  shut  from  him,  though  his  days 
Of  passion  had  consumed  themselves  to  dust. 
It  is  in  vain  that  we  could  coldly  gaze 
On  such  as  smile  upon  us  ;  the  heart  must 
Leap  kindly  back  to  kindness,  though  disgust 
Hath  weaned  it  from  all  worldings  :  tVius  he  felt, 
For  there  was  soft  remembrance,  a  id  sweet  trust 
In  one  fond  breast,  to  which  his  o'.vi  would  melt. 
And  in  its  tenderer  hour  on  that  his  bosom  dwelt. 

Liy. 

And  he  had  learned  to  love, — 1  know^  not  why, 
For  this  in  such  as  him  seems  strange  of  mooil, — 
The  helpless  looks  of  blooming  infancy, 
Even  in  its  earliest  nature  ;  what  subdued 
To  change  like  this,  a  mind  so  far  imbued 
With  scorn  of  man,  it  little  boots  to  know; 
But  thus  it  was  ;  and  though  in  solitude 
Small  power  the  nipped  affections  have  to  grow. 
In  him  this  glowed  when  all  beside  had  ceased  to  glow. 

LV. 
Aud  there  was  one  soft  breast,  as  hath  been  said, 

Which  unto  his  was  bound  by  stronger  ties 

That  the  church  links  wiihal  ;  and,    though  unwed, 

That  love  was  pure,  and,  far  above  disguise, 

Had  stood  the  test  of  mortal  enmities 

Still  undivided,  and  cemented  more 

By  peril  dreaded  most  in  female  eyes  ; 

But  this  was  firm,  and  from  a  loreign  shore 
Well  to  that  heart  might  his  tlu'se  absent  greetings  pour  ! 

J. 

The  castled  crag  of  Dracheijfels  (11 ) 

Frowns  o'er  the  wide  and  winding   Rhine, 

Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 

Between  tlie  banks  wliicli  bear  the  vine, 

And  hills  all  rich  with  blossomed  trees, 


J 84  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

And  fields  which  promise  corn  and  wine, 
And  scattered  cities  crowning  these. 
Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine, 
Have  strewed  a  scene,  which  I  should  see 
With  double  joy  wert  thou  wilh  me  ! 

2. 
And  peasant  girls,  with  deep  blue  eyes, 
And  hands  which  offer  early  flowers. 
Walk  smiling  o'er  this  paradise  ; 
Above,  the  frequent  feudal  towers 
Through  green  leaves  lift  their  walls  of  gray. 
And  many  a  rock  which  steeply  lours. 
And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay, 
Look  o'er  this  vale  of  vintage-bowers  ; 
But  one  thing  want  these  banks  of  Rhine,^ir- 
Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  mine  1 

3. 
I  send  the  lilies  given  to  me  ; 
Though  long  before  thy  hand  they  touch* 
I  know  that  they  must  withered  be. 
But  yet  reject  them  not  as  such  ; 
For  I  have  cherished  them  as  dear. 
Because  they  yet  may  meel  thine  eye 
And  guide  thy  soul  to  mine  even  here, 
When  thou  behold'st  them  drooping  nigh, 
Andknow'st  them  gathered  by  the  Rhine, 
And  offered  from  my  heart  to  thine  ! 

4 
The  river  nobly  foams  and  flows, 
The  charm  of  this  enchanted  ground. 
And  all  its  thousand  turns  disclose 
Some  fresher  beauty  varying  round  ; 
The  haughtiest  breast  its  wish  might  bound 
Through  life  to  dwell  delighted  here  ; 
Nor  could  on  earth  a  spot  be  found 
To  nature  and  to  me  so  de^ir, 
Could  thy  dear  eyes  in  following  mine 
Still  sweeten  more  these  banks  of  Rhine  ! 

LVI. 
By  Coblentz,  on  a  rise  of  gentle  ground. 
There  is  a  small  and  simple  pyramid. 
Crowning  the  summit  of  the  verdant  mound  ; 
Beneath  its  base  are  heroes'  ashes  hid. 
Our  enemy's, — but  let  not  that  forbid 
Honour  to  Marceau  !  o'er  whose  early  tomb 
Tears,  big  tears,  gushed  from  the  rough  soldier's  lid. 
Lamenting  and  yet  envying  such  a  doom. 
Falling  for  France,  whose  rights  he  battled  to  resume. 


PILCrRIMAGE.  1«* 

LVII. 

Brief,  brave,  and  glorious  was  his  young  career, — 
His  mourners  were  two  hosts,  his  Iriends  and  I'oes  ; 
And  fitly  may  the  strant?er  lingering  here 
Pray  lor  his  gallant  spirit's  bright  repose  ; 
For  he  wits  Freedom's  champion,  one  of  those, 
The  lew  in  number,  who  had  not  o'erstept 
The  charter  to  chastise,  which  she  bestows 
On  such  as  wield  hei-  weapons ;  he  had  kept 
The  whiteness  ot  his  soul,  and  thus  men  o'er  him  wept.  (12) 

LVIII. 
Here  Ehrenbreitstein,  (13)  with  her  shattered  wall 
Black  with  the  miner's  blast,  upon  her  height 
Yet  shows  of  what  she  was,  when  shell  and  ball 
Rebounding  idly  on  her  strength  did  light  ; 
A  tower  of  victory  !  from  whence  the  flight 
Of  baflfled  foes  was  watched  along  the  plain  : 
But  Peace  destroyed  what  war  could  never  blight, 
And  laid  those  proud  roofs  bare  to  Summer's  rain- 
On  which  the  iron  shower  for  years  had  poured  in  vain. 

LIX. 
Adieu  to  thee,  fair  Rhine !  How  long  delighted 
The  stranger  fain  would  linger  on  his  way  ! 
Thine  is  a  scene  alike  where  souls  united 
Or  lonely  Contemplation  thus  might  stray; 
And  could  the  ceaseless  vultures  cease  to  prey 
On  self  condemning  bosoms,  it  were  here. 
Where  Nature,  nor  too  sombre  nor  too  gay. 
Wild  but  not  rude,  awful  yet  not  austere. 
Is  to  the  mellow  Earth  as  Autumn  to  the  year. 

LX. 
Adieu  to  thee  again  !  a  vain  adieu  ! 
There  can  be  no  farewell  to  scene  like  thine  ; 
The  mind  is  coloured  by  thy  every  hue  ; 
And  if  reluctantly  the  eyes  resign 
Their  cherished  gaze  upon  thee,  lovely  Rhine ! 
'Tis  with  the  thankful  glance  of  parting  praise  ; 
More  mighty  spots  may  rise-  more  glaring  shine, 
But  none  unite  in  one  attaching  maze 
The  brilliant,  fair,  and  soft,— the  glories  of  old  days. 

LXI. 
The  negligently  grand,  the  fruitful  bloom 
Of  coming  ripeness,  the  white  city's  sheen. 
The  rolling  stream,  the  precipice's  gloom. 
The  forest's  growth,  and  Gothic  walls  between, 
The  wild  rocks  shaped  as  they  had  turrets  been 
In  mockery  of  man's  art ;  and  these  withal 


Ji«  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

A  race  of  faces  happy  as  the  scene, 

Whose  fertile  bounties  here  extend  to  all, 
Still  springinging  o'er  thy  banks,  though  Empires  near  them  fall. 

LXII. 

But  these  recede.     Above  me  are  the  Alps, 

The  palaces  of  Nature,  whose  vast  walls 

Have  pinnacled  in  clouds  their  snowy  scalps, 

And  throned  Eternity  in  icy  halls 

Of  cold  sublimity,  where  forms  and  falls 

The  avalanche — the  thunderbolt  of  snow  { 

All  that  exi>ands  the  spirit,  yet  appals, 

Gather  around  these  summits,  as  to  show 
How  Earth  may  pierce  to  Heaven,  yet  leave  vain  Man  below. 

LXTII. 

But  ere  these  matchless  heights  I  dare  to  sc*an, 

There  is  a  spot  should  not  be  passed  in  vain, — 

Morat !  the  proud,  the  patriot  field  where  man 

May  gaze  on  ghastly  trophies  of  the  slain. 

Nor  blush  for  those  who  conquered  on  that  plain  ; 

Here  Burgundy  bequeathed  his  tombless  host, 

A  bony  heap,  through  ages  to  remain. 

Themselves  their  monument ;— The  Stygian  coast 
Unsepulchred  they    roamed,   and  shrieked   each   wanderine 
ghost.  (14)  ^ 

Lxrv. 

While  Waterloo  with  Cannae's  carnage  vies, 
Morat  and  Marathon  twin  names  shall  stand  ; 
They  were  true  Glory's  stainless  victories, 
Won  by  the  unambitious  heart  and  hand 
Of  a  prmid,  brotherly,  and  civic  band. 
All  unbought  cbanipions  in  no  i)rincely  cause 
Of  vice-entailed  Corruption  ;  they  no  land 
Doomed  to  bewail  ihe  blasphemy  of  laws 
Making  kings'  rights  divine,  by  some  Draconic  clause, 

LXV. 

By  n  lone  wall  a  lonelier  column  rears 
A  gray  and  grief-worn  a«pect  of  old  days, 
'Tis  (he  last  remnant  of  the  wreck  of  year«. 
And  looks  as  with  Ihe  wild-bewildered  gaze 
Of  one  to  stone  converted  by  amaze. 
Yet  SI  ill  with  consciousness  ;  and  there  it  stands 
Making  a  marvel  that  it  not  decays, 
When  the  coeval  jiride  of  human  hands. 
Levelled  (15)  Aventicum,  hath  strewed  her  subject  lands 

LXVI. 
And  there— oh  !  sweet  and  sacred  be  the  name  !— 
Julia— the  daughter,  the  devoted — gav« 


PILGRIMAGE.  lit 

Her  youth  to  Heaven  ;  her  heart,  beneath  a  claim 
Nearest  to  Heaven's,  broke  o'er  a  father's  grave, 
.lustice   is  sworn  'gainst  tears  and  her's  would  crav» 
The  life  she  lived  in  ;  but  the  judp^e  was  just. 
And  then  she  died  on  him  she  could  not  save. 
Their  tomb  was  simple,  and  without  a  bust, 
And  held  within  their  urn  one  mind,  one  heart,  one  dust.  (16) 

Lxvn. 

But  these  are  deeds  which  should  not  pass  away. 
And  names  that  must  not  wither,  tho'  the  earth 
Forgets  her  empires  with  a  just  decay, 
Th'  enslavers  and  th'  enslaved,  their  death  and  bir(h  ) 
The  high,  the  mountain-majesty  of  worth 
Should  be,  and  shall,  survivor  of  its  woe, 
And  from  its  immortality  look  forth 
In  the  sun's  face,  like  yonder  Alpine  anow,  (17) 
Imperishably  pure  beyond  all  things  below. 

Lxvnr. 

Lake  Leman  woos  me  with  its  crystal  face. 

The  mirror  where  the  stars  and  mountains  view  ' 

The  stillness  of  their  aspect  in  each  trace 

Its  clear  depth  yields  of  their  far  height  and  hue : 

There  is  too  much  of  man  here,  to  look  through 

With  a  tit  mind  the  might  which  I  behold  ; 

But  soon  in  me  shall  Loneliness  renew 

Thoughts  hid,  but  not  less  cherished  than  of  old. 
Ere  mingling  with  the  herd  had  penned  me  in  their  fold. 

LXIX. 

To  fly  from,  need  not  be  to  hate,  mankind  j 

All  are  not  fit  with  Ihem  to  stir  and  toil. 

Nor  is  it  discontent  to  keep  the  mind  v 

Deep  in  its  fountain,  lest  it  overboil 

111  the  hot  throng,  where  we  become  the  spoil 

Of  our  infection,  till  too  late  and  long 
We  may  deplore  and  struggle  with  the  coil. 

In  wretched  interchange  of  wrong  for  wrong 
Midst  a  contentious  world,  striving  where  none  are  strong-, 

LXX. 
There,  in  a  moment,  we  may  plunge  our  years 
In  fatal  penitence,  and  in  the  blight 
Of  our  own  soul,  turn  all  our  blood  to  tears. 
And  colour  things  to  come  with  hues  of  Night ; 
The  race  ©f  li/e  becomes  a  hopeless  flight 
To  thpse  that  walk  in  darkness  j  on  the  sea, 
The  boldest  steer  but  where  their  ports  invite, 
But  there  are  wanderers  o'er  Eternity 
Who3«  bark  drives oq  and  on,  and  anchored  ne'er  shall  be» 


188  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

LXXI. 

Is  it  not  better,  then  to  be  alone, 
And  love  Earth  only  for  its  eartlily  sake  ? 
By  the  blue  rushing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone,  (18) 
Or  the  pure  bosom  of  its  nursing  lake. 
Which  feeds  it  as  a  mother  who  doth  make 
A  fair  but  froward  infant  her  own  care, 
Kissin.Q;  its  cries  away  as  these  awake  ; — 
Is  it  not  better  thus  our  lives  to- wear, 
Than  join  the  crushing  crowd,  doomed  to  inflict  or  bear  ? 

Lxxir. 

I  live  not  in  myself,  but  I  become 

Portion  of  that  around  me  ;  and  to  me. 

High  mountains  are  a  feeling,  but  the  hum 

Of  human  cities  torture  ;  I  can  see 

Nothing  to  loathe  in  nature,  save  to  be 

A  link  reluctant  in  a  flesiily  chain. 

Classed  amonj;  creatures,  when  the  soul  can  flee, 

And  with  the  sky,  the  peak,  the  heaving  plain 

Of  ocean,  or  the  stars,  mingle,  and  not  iu  vain. 

LXXIII. 
And  thus  I  am  absorbed,  and  this  is  life : 
I  look  upon  the  peopled  desart  past, 
As  on  a  place  of  agony  and  strife 
Where  for  some  sin,  to  Sorrow  I  was  cast, 
To  act  and  suffer,  but  remount  at  last 
With  a  fresh  pinion  ;  which  I  feel  to  spring, 
Though  young,  yet  waxing  vigorous,  as  the  blast 
Which  il  would  cope  with,  on  delighted  wing, 

Spurning  the  clay-cold  bonds  which  round  our  being  cling. 

LXXIV. 
And  when,  at  length,  tiie  mind  shall  be  all  free 
From  what  it  hates  in  this  degraded  form, 
Reft  of  its  carnal  life,  save  what  shall  be 
Existent  happier  in  the  fly  and  worm, — 
When  elements  to  elements  conform, 
And  dust  is  as  it  should  be,  shall  I  not 
Feel  all  I  see,  less  dazzling,  but  more  warm  ? 
The  bodiless  thought?  the  Spirit  of  each  spot  ? 

Of  which,  even  now,  I  share  at  times  the  immortal  lot  ? 

LXXV. 
Are  not  the  mountains,  waves,  and  skies,  a  part 
Of  me  and  of  my  soul,  as  I  of  them  ? 
Is  not  the  love  of  these  deep  in  my  heart 
With  a  pure  passion  ?  should  I  not  contemn 
AH  objects,  if  compared  with  these  ?  and  stent 
A  tide  of  sull'ering,  rather  than  forego 
Such  feelings  for  the  hard  and  worldly  phlegm 


PILGRIMAGE.  !«» 

Of  those  whose  eyes  are  only  turned  below, 
Gazing  upon  the  grounil,  with  thoughts  which  dare  not  glow. 

LXXVI. 
But  this  is  not  my  theme  ;  and  I  return 
To  that  which  is  immediate,  and  require 
Those  who  find  contemplation  in  the  urn. 
To  look  on  One,  whose  dust  was  once  all  fire, 
A  native  of  the  land  where  I  respire 
The  clear  air  for  a  while^a  passing  guest, 
Where  he  became  a  being,— whose  desire 
Was  to  be  glorious  ;  'twas  a  foolish  quest, 
Tlie  which  to  gain  and  keep,  he  sacrificed  all  rest. 

LXXVIl. 
Here  the  self-lorturhig  sophist,  wild  Rousseau, 
The  apostle  of  affliction,  he  who  threw 
Enchantment  over  passion,  and  from  woe 
Wrung  overwhelming  eloquence,  first  drew 
The  breath  which  made  him  wretched  ;  yet  he  knew 
How  to  make  madness  beautiful,  and  cast 
O'er  erring  deeds  and  thoughts,  a  heavenly  hue 
Of  words  like  sunbeams,  dazzling  as  they  past 
The  eyes  which  o'er  them  shed  tears  feelingly  and  fast. 

LXXVI  II. 
His  love  was  passion's  essence — as  a  tree 
On  fire  by  lightning  :  with  ethereal  flame 
Kindled  he  was,  and  blasted  ;  for  to  be 
Thus,  and  enamoured,  were  in  him  the  same- 
But  his  was  not  the  love  of  living  dame, 
Nor  of  the  dead  that  rise  upon  our  dreams, 
But  of  ideal  beauty,  which  became 
In  him  existence,  and  o'erflowing  teems 
Along  his  burning  page,  distempered  though  it  seems. 

LXXIX. 
This  breathed  itself  to  life  in  Jiilie,  this 
Invested  her  with  all  that's  wild  and  sweet  ; 
This  hallowed,  too,  the  memorable  kiss 
Which  every  morn  his  fevered  lip  would  greet, 
From  her's  who  but  with  friendship  his  would  meet  ; 
But  to  that  gentle  touch,  through  brain  and  breast 
Flashed  the  thrilled  spirit's  love  devourii.g  heat  ; 
In  that  absorbing  sigh  perchance  more  !)lest, 
Than  vulgar  minds  may  be  with  all  they  seek  possest.  (19) 

LXXX. 
His  life  was  one  long  war  with  self-sought  foes, 
Or  friends  by  him  self-banished  ;   for  his  mind 
Had  grown  Suspicion's  sanctuary,  and  chose 
For  its  own  cruel  sacrifice,  the  kind, 


I!»a  CIIILDE  HAROLD'S 

'Gainst  whom  he  vnged  with  fury  straiifre  and  hlind. 
But  he  was  p'lrenzied,— wherefore,  who  may  know  ? 
Since  cuuse  miglit  be  whi.'h  sivill  touhl  never  find  ; 
J3ut  he  was  plirenzied  liy  disease  of  woe, 
fo  that  worst  pitch  of  all,  which  wears  a  reasoning  show. 

LXXXI. 

For  then  lie  was  inspired,  and  from  him  came 
As  from  the  Pythian 's  mystic  cave  of  yore, 
Those  oracles  which  set  the  worhi  in  flame, 
Nor  ceased  to  burn  till  kingdoms  were  no  more. 
Did  he  not  this  for  France  ?  which  lay  before 
Bowed  to  the  inborn  tyramiy  of  years  ? 
Broken  and  trembling-,  to  the  yok:-  she  bore, 
Till  by  the  voice  of  him  and  his  compeers, 
Roused  up  to  too  mvich  wrath  which  follows  overgrown  fears  ? 

LXXXI  I,  . 

They  made  themselves  a  fearful  monument  !  / 

iThe  wreck  of  old  opinions — things  which  grew  vj 
Breathed  from  the  birth  of  time  :  the  veil  they  rent 
And  what  bt-hind  it  lay,  all  earth  shall  view. 
But  good  with  ill  they  also  overthrow. 
Leaving  but  ruins,  wherewith  to  rebuild 
Upon  llie  same  foundation,  and  renew 
Dungeons  ami  thrones,  which  the  same  hour  re-filled, 
As  heretofore,  because  ambition  was  self-willed. 

LXXXITL 

But  this  will  not  endure,  nor  be  endured  ! 
Mankind  have  felt  their  strength,  and  made  it  felt, 
They  might  have  used  it  better,  but,  allured 
By  their  new  vigour,  sternly  have  they  dealt 
On  one  another  ;   pity  ceased  to  melt 
With  her  own  natural  charities.     But  they. 
Who  in  oppression's  darkness  caved  had  dwelt 
They  were  not  eagles,  nourished  with  the  day  ; 
What  marvel  then,  at  times,   if  they  mistook  their  prey  ? 

Lxxxiy. 

What  deep  wounds  ever  closed  without  a  scar  ? 
The  heart's  bleed  longest,  and  but  to  heal  to  wear 
That  which  disfigures  it;  and  they  who  war 
With  their  own  hopes,  and  have  been  vanquished,  bear 
Silence,  but  not  submission  :  in  his  lair 
Fixed  Passion  holds  his  breath,  until  the  hour 
^Vhich  shall  atone  for  years  ;  none  need  despair  : 
It  came,  it  cometh,  and  will  come,—  the  power 
To  punish  or  forgive — in  one  we  shall  be  slower. 

LXXXV. 

Clear,  placid  Leman  !  thy  contrasted  lake, 


PILGRIMAGE.  ]<n 

With  the  wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a  thinp; 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  lor  a  i)urer  spring. 
Tliis  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  watt  me  from  distraction  ;  once  I  loved 
Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmurine; 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  repioved, 
That  1  with  stern  delights  should  e'er  have  been  so  moved. 

LXXXVI. 

It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear. 
Mellowed  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen, 
Save  darkened  Jura,  whose  capt  heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep  :  and  drawing  near. 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore. 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood  ;  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar. 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more  : 

LXXAVII. 

He  is  an  evening  reveller,  who  makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill ; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  i'rom  out  the  brakes, 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill, 
But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil, 
Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues. 

LXXXV^III. 

Ye  stars  !  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven  ! 
If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the  fate 
Of  men  and  empires, — 'tis  to  be  forgiven, 
That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great. 
Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal  state. 
And  claim  a  kindred  with  you  ;  for  ye  are 
A  beauty  and  a  m)sterj',  and  create 
In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar. 
That  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named  themselves  a  star 

LXXXIX. 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still — though  not  in  sleep, 
But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most ; 
And  silent,  as  we  staiul  in  thoughts  too  deep  :-■ 
All  heaven  and  earth  are  still :   From  the  high  host 
Of  stars,  to  the  lulled  lake  and  mountain-coast, 
All  is  concentered  in  a  life  intense. 
Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost, 
But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  defence. 


192  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

XC. 

Then  stirs  the  feelina;  infinite,  so  felt 
In  solitude,  where  we  are  least  alone  ; 
A  truth,  which  through  onr  being  then  doth  melt 
And  purifies  from  sell  :  it  is  a  tone, 
The  soul  and  source  of  music,  which  makes  known 
Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a  charm, 
Like  to  the  fabled  C.vtiierea's  zone, 
Binding  all  Ihings  with  beauty; — 'twould  disarm 
The  spectre  Death,  had  he  substantial  power  to  harm. 

XCL 

Not  vainly  did  the  early  Persian  make 
His  altar  the  high  places  and  the  peak. 
Of  earth-o'ergiiziiig  mountains,  (20)  and.  thus  take 
A  fit  and  unwailed  temple,  there  too  seek 
The  Spirit,  in  whose  hoiiour  shrines  are  weak, 
Upreared  of  human  hands-     Come,  and  compare 
Columns  and  idol-dwellings,  Goth  or  Greek, 
With  Nature's  realms  of  worship,  earth  and  air, 
Nor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circumscribe  thy  prayer  ! 

xcn. 

The  sky  is  changed  ! — and  such  a  change  !  Oh  night,  (21) 
And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  in  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman  !   Far  along. 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder  !   Not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue. 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud, 

Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  wiio  call  to  her  aloud  ! 

XCIIL 
And  this  is  in  the  night : — Most  glorious  night ! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber  !  let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight, — 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee  ! 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea, 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth  ! 
And  now  again  'tis  black, —  and  now,  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth. 

As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth. 

XCIV. 
Now,  where  the  swift  Rhone  cleaves  his  way  betwee« 
Heights  which  appear  as  lovers  who  have  parted 
In  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  intervene, 
That  they  can  meet  no  more,  though  broken-hearted. 
Though  in  their  souls,  which  thus  each  other  thwarted, 


PILGRIMAGE.  19J 

Love  was  the  very  root  of  tlu'  fond  ra^e 
^V'hich  blighted  their  life's  bloom,  and  then  departed  : 
Itself  expired,  but  leaviiiir  theui  iin  age 
Of  years  all  winters, — war  within  themselves  to  wage. 

XCV. 
Now,  where  the  quick  Rhone  thus  liath  cleft  his  way, 
The  mightiest  of  the  storms  hatli  ta'en  his  stand  : 
For  here,  ?iot  one,  but  many,  make  their  play, 
And  fling  their  thunder-l)o!ts  from  hand  to  hand. 
Flashing  and  cast  around :   of  all  the  band, 
The  brightest  through  these  parted  hills  hath  forked 
His  lightnings,— as  if  he  did  understand. 
That  in  such  gaps  as  desolation  worked, 
1'liere  the  hot  shaft  should  blast  whatever  therein  !urk,ed. 

XCVL 
Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings  !  ye  ! 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful ;  the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices,  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless, — If  I  rest. 
But  where  of  ye,  oh  tempests  !   is  the  goal  ? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast? 
Or  do  ye  lind,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest  ? 

1  XCVII. 

/    Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  now 

That  which  is  most  within  me, — could  I  wreak 
My  thoughts  upon  expression,  and  thus  throw 
Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings,  stronger  weak, 
AU-that  I  would  have  sought,  and  all  I  seek, 
Bear,  now,  feel,  and  yet  breathe — into  one  word. 
And  that  one  word  were  Lightning,  I  would  speak  ; 
But  SIS  it  is,  I  live  and  die  unheard, 

With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it  as  a  sword. 

xcvin. 

The  morn  is  up  again,  the  dewy  morn. 
With  breath  all  incense,  and  with  cheek  all  bloom, 
Laughing  the  clouds  away  with  playful  scorn. 
And  living  as  if  earth  contained  no  tomb, — 
-And  glowiTig  into  day  :  we  may  resume 
'I'he  march  of  our  existence:  and  thus  I, 
Slillon  thy  shores,  fair  Luman  !  may  find  room 
And  food  for  meditation,  nor  pass  by 
Much,  that  may  give  us  pause,  if  pondered  fittingly. 

XCIX. 

Clarem !  sweet  Clarens,  birth-place  of  deep  Love  ! 

R 


194  (  lULDr:  HAROLD'S 

Tliine  nir  is  iLe  301111!^  breath  of  passionsite  thought ; 
'J'by  trees  take  root  in  Love  :  the  snows  above 
The  very  GUiciers  have  his  colours  caught, 
And  sun-set  into  rose-hues  sees  them  wrought  (22) 
By  rays  which  sleep  there  lovingly :  the  rocks, 
The  permanent  crags,  tell  here  of  Love,  who  sought 
Li  them  a  refuge  from  the  worldly  shocks. 
Which  stir  and  sting  the  soul  with  hope  that  woos,  then  mocks. 

C. 

Clarens  I  by  heavenly  feet  thy  paths  are  trod, — 
Undying  Trove's,  who  here  ascends  a  throne 
To  which  the  steps  are  mountains  ;  where  the  god 
Is  a  pervading  life  and  light, — so  shown 
Not  on  those  simimits  solely,  nor  alone 
In  the  still  cave  and  forest ;  o'er  the  flovter 
His  eye  is  sparkling,  and  his  breath  hath  blown. 
His  soft  and  summer  breath,  whose  tender  power 
Passes  the  strength  of  storms  in  their  most  desolate  hour. 

CT. 

All  things  are  here  of  hiifi ;  from  the  black  pines, 
Which  are  his  shade  on  high,  and  the  loud  roar 
Of  torrents,  where  he  listeneth,  to  the  vines 
Which  slope  his  green  path  downward  to  the  shore, 
Where  the  bowed  waters  meet  him,  and  adore. 
Kissing  his  feet  with  murmurs  ;  and  the  wood, 
The  covert  of  old  trees,  with  trunks  all  lioar, 
But  light  leaves,  young  as  joy,  stands  where  it  stood 
Offering  to  him,  and  his,  a  populous  solitude. 

cn. 

A  populous  solitude  of  bees  and  birds, 
And  fairy-formed  and  many-coloured  things, 
Who  worship  him  with  notes  more  sweet  than  words. 
And  innocently  open  their  glad  wings. 
Fearless  and  full  of  life  :  the  gush  of  springs. 
And  fall  of  lofty  mountains,  and  the  bend 
Of  stirring  '.iranches,  and  the  bud  which  brings 
The  swiftehl  thought  of  beauty,  here  extend, 
Mingling,  and  made  by  Love,  unto  one  mighty  end. 

cm. 

He  who  hath  loved  not,  here  would  learn  that  lore. 

And  make  his  heart  a  spirit  ;  he  who  knows 

That  tender  mystery,  will  love  the  more. 

For  this  is  Love's  recess,  where  vain  men's  woes. 

And  the  world's  waste,  have  driven  them  far  from  those. 

For  'tis  his  nature  to  advance  or  die  ; 

iW  stands  not  still,  but  or  decays,  or  grows 


PILGRIMAGE.  iS. 

Into  a  boundless  blessing,  which  may  vie 

With  the  immortal  lights,  in  its  eternity  ! 

CIV. 
-Tvvns  not  for  fiction  chose  Rousseau  this  spot, 
Peopling  it  with  affections ;  but  he  found 
It  was  the  scene  which  passion  must  allot 
To  the  mind's  purified  beings  ;  'twas  the  ground 
Where  early  Love  his  Psyche's  zone  unbound, 
And  hallowed  it  with  loveliness  :  'tis  lone. 
And  wonderful,  and  deep,  and  hath  a  sound, 
And  sense,  and  sight  of  sweetness ;  here  the  Rhone 

Hath  spreatl  himself  a  couch,  the  Alps  have  reared  a  lhr«)iii'. 

CV. 
liausanne  !  and  Ferney  !  ye  have  been  the  abodes  {'23) 
Of  names  which  unto  you  bequeathed  a  name  ; 
Mortals,  who  sought  and  found,  by  dangerous  roads, 
A  path  to  perpetuity  of  fame  : 
They  were  gigantic  minds,  and  theirsteep  aim, 
Was,  Titan-like,  on  daring  doubts  to  pile 
Thoughts  which  should  call  down  thunder,  and  the  flame 
Of  Heaven,  again  assailed,  if  Heaven  the  while 
On  man  and  man's  research  could  deign  do  more  than  *mile. 

CVL 
The  one  ^'m  fire  mvi  fickleHe?;'?,  n  ehMf 
Most  nHit«'.)!e  in  wisijes,  hn'  in  n;ind, 
A  wit  as  various, — gay,  grave,  sage,  or  wild,— 
Historian,  bard,  philosopher,  comhi)ied  ; 
He  multiplied  himself  among  mankind. 
The  Proteus  of  their  talents  ;   But  his  own 
Breathed  most  in  ridicule, — which,  as  the  wind, 
Blew  where  it  listed,  laying  all  things  prone, — 
Now  to  o'erthrow  a  fool,  and  now  to  shake  a  throne. 

evil. 

The  other,  deep  and  slow,  exhausting  thought, 

And  hiving  wisdom  with  each  studious  year, 

fn  meditation  dv.'elt,  with  learning  wrought, 

And  shajjcd  his  weapon  with  an  edge  severe, 

Sa[)piiig  a  solemn  creed  with  solemn  sneer  ; 

The  lord  of  irony, — that  msLster-spell, 

Which  stung  his  foes  to  wrath,  which  grew  from  fear, 

And  doomed  him  to  the  zealot's  ready  Hell, 

\\'hich  answers  to  all  doubts  so  eloquently  well. 

cviir. 

Vet,  peace  be  with  their  ashes, — for  by  them, 

If  merited,  the  penalty  is  paid  ; 

It  is  not  ours  to  judge,— far  less  condemn  ; 

rile  hour  must  come  wiien  such  things  viiall  hn  made 

Known  uulo  all,— or  liopp  and  drefnl  hIIh}  ;'d 


15)0  CIIILDE  HAROLD'S 

By  slumber,  on  one  pillow, — in  the  cinst, 
W'Licii,  thus  much  we  are  sure,  must  lie  decayed  ; 
And  when  it  shall  revive,  ;is  is  our  trust, 
'Twill  be  to  be  forgiven,  or  sailer  what  is  just. 

CIX 

But  let  me  quit  man's  works,  again  to  reati 
His  Maker's,  spread  around  me,  and  suspend 
This  page,  which  from  my  reveries  I  feed, 
Until  it  seems  prolonging  without  end. 
The  clouds  above  me  to  the  white  Alps  tend, 
jVnd  I  must  pierce  them,  and  survey  whate'er 
2»Iay  be  permitted,  as  my  tteps  I  bend 
To  their  most  great  and  growing  region,  where 
The  earth  with  her  embrace  compels  the  powers  of  air. 

ex. 

Italia  !  too,  Italia !  looking  on  thee, 
Full  Hashes  on  the  soul  the  light  of  ages, 
Since  Ihe  lierce  Carthaginian  almost  won  thee, 
To  the  last  halo  of  the  ciiiefs  and  sages, 
Who  glorify  thy  consecrated  pages  ; 
Thou  v>-8rt  the  throne  and  grave  of  empires;  still, 
The  fount  at  which  the  panting  mind  assuages 
Her  thirst  of  knowledge,  quaffing  there  her  fill, 
Flows  from  the  eternal  source  of  Rome's  imperial  hill. 

CXI. 
Thus  far  I  have  proceeded  in  a  theme 
Renewed  with  no  kind  auspices  : — to  feel 
We  are  not  what  we  have  been,  and  to  deem 
We  are  not  wliat  wo  should  be, — and  to  steel 
The  heart  against  itself;  and  to  conceal, 
With  a  proud  caution,  love,  or  hate,  or  aught, — 
Passion  or  feeling,   purpose,  grief  or  zeal,— 
Which  is  the  tyrant  spirit  of  our  thought. 
Is  a  stern  task  of  soul :— No  matter,—  it  is  taught. 

CXII. 
And  for  these  words  thus  woven  into  song, 
It  may  be  that  they  are  a  harmless  wile,— 
Tiie  coljuring  of  the  scenes  which  fleet  along. 
Which  I  would  sei^e,  in  passing,  to  begaib 
My  breast,  or  that  of  .thers,  for  a  while. 
Fame  is  the  thirst  of  youth,— but  I  am  not 
So  young  as  to  regard  men's  frown  or  smile. 
As  loss  or  guerdon  of  a  glorious  lot ; 
stool  a.i  I  stand  alone,  -r^iiumbdreJ  or  forgo  f. 

CXIII. 
I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me  ; 


PILGRIMAGE.  197 

I  have  not  flatteredits  rank  breath,  ]ior  bowed 
To  its  idolatries  a  patient  knee, ^ 
Nor  coined  my  cheek  to  smiles,— nor  cried  aloud 
In  worship  of  an  echo  ;  in  the  crowd 
They  could  not  deem  me  one  of  surdi ;  I  stood 
Among  them,  but  not  of  tliem  ;  in  a  shroud 
Of  thoughts  which  were  not  their  thoughts,  and  still  could, 
Had  I  not  filed  (24)  my  mind,  which  thus  itself  subdued. 

CA'-IV, 
I  have  not  loved  the  world  nor  the  world  me, — 
But  let  us  part  fair  foes;    [  do  believe, 
Tho'  I  have  found  them  not,  that  there  may  be 
Words  which  are  things, — hopes  which  will  not  deceive, 
And  virtues  M'hich  are  merciful,  nor  weave 
Snares  for  the  failing;   I  would  deem 
O'er  others'  griefs  that  some  sini'.erely  grieve: 
That  two,  or  one,  are  almost  what  they  seem, — 
That  goodness  is  no  name,  and  happiness  no  dream. 

CXV. 
My  daughter  !  with  thy  name  this  F.onrr  begun — 
My  daughter  !  with  thy  name  thus  nmch  shall  end-  - 
I  see  thee  not,— I  hear  thee  not, — but  none 
Can  be  so  wrapt  in  thee  ;  thou  art  the  friend 
To  whom  the  shadows  of  far  years  extend : 
Albeit  my  brow  thou  never  shouldst  behold, 
My  voice  shall  with  thy  future  visions  blend, 
And  reach  into  thy  heart, — when  mine  is  cold, — 
A  token  and  a  tone,  even  from  thy  father's  mould. 

CXVI. 
To  aid  thy  mind's  development, — to  watch 
Thy  dawn  of  little  joys, — to  sit  and  see 
Almost  thy  very  growth, — to  view  thee  catch 
Knowledge  of  objects,— wonders  yet  to  thee  ! 
To  hold  thee  lightly  on  a  gentle  knee, 
And  print  on  thy  soft  cheek  a  parent's  kiss,— 
This,  it  should  seem,  was  not  reserved  for  me  ; 
Yet  this  was  in  my  nature :  iis  it  is, 
•  I  know  not  what  is  there,  yet  something  like  to  this. 

CXVII. 

Yet,  tho'  dull  Hate  as  duty  should  be  taught, 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me  ;  tho'  my  name 
Should  be  shut  from  thee,  as   a  spell  still  fraught 
With  desolation, — and  a  broken  claim  : 
Though  the  grave  closed  between  ns, — 'twere  the  same, 
1  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me  ;  though  to  drain 
jl/y  blood  from  out  thy  being,  were  an  u\m, 

R  2 


198  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

Aiul  an  atlainment,—  nil  would  be  in  vain, — 
Still  thou  would'st  love  me,  still  that  more  than  life  retain. 

CXVIH. 

The  chiM  of    love, — tho'  born  in  bitterness. 
And  nurtured  in  convulsion.     Of  thy  sire 
These  were  the  elements, — and  thine  no  less. 
As  yet  such  are  around  thee, — but  thy  fire 
Shall  be  more  tempered,  and  thy  hope  far  hisfher. 
Sweet  be  thy  cradled  slumbers  !   O'er  the  sea, 
And  from  the  mountains  where  1  now  respire, 
Fain  would  I  waft  sucJi  blessing  upon  thee, 
As  with  a  sigh,  I  deem  thou  might'st  have  been  to  me  ! 


PILGRIMAGE.  J  09 

Feuice,  January  2,  1818. 

TO 

JOHN  HOBHOUSE,  ESQ,  A.  M.  F.  R.  S. 
&c.  &c.  &c. 


MY    DEAR    HOBHOUSE, 

After  an  interval  of  eiarlit  years  between  the  com- 
position of  tlie  first  and  last  cantos  of  Cliiltle  Harold,  the 
conclusion  of  the  poem  is  about  to  be  submitted  to  the  public. 
In  parting  with  so  old  a  friend  it  is  not  extraordinary  that  I 
should  recur  to  one  still  older  and  better, — to  one  who  has 
beheld  the  birth  and  death  of  the  other,  and  to  whom  I  am  far 
more  indebted  for  the  social  advantages  of  an  enlightened 
friendship,  than — though  not  ungrateful— I  can,  or  could  be, 
to  Childe  Harold,  for  any  public  favour  reflected  through  the 
jioem  on  the  poet, — to  one,  whom  I  have  known  long  and  ac- 
companied far,  whom  I  have  found  wakeful  over  my  sickness 
and  kind  in  my  sorrow,  glad  in  my  prosperity,  and  firm  in  my 
adversity,  true  in  counsel  and  trusty  in  peril — to  a  friend  often 
tried  and  never  found  wanting; — to  yourself. 

In  so  doing,  I  recur  from  fiction  to  truth  ;  and  in  dedicating 
to  you  in  its  complete,  or  at  least  concluded  state,  a  poetical 
work  which  is  the  longest,  the  most  thoughtful  and  comprt- 
hensive  of  my  compositions,  I  wish  to  do  honour  to  myself  by 
the  record  of  many  years'  intimacy  with  a  man  of  learning,  of 
talent,  of  steadiness,  and  of  honour.  It  is  not  for  minds  like 
ours  to  give  or  to  receive  flattery  ;  yet  the  praises  of  sincerity 
have  ever  been  permitted  to  the  voice  of  friendship  ;  and  it  is 
not  for  yon,  nor  even  for  others,  but  to  relieve  a  heart  which 
has  not  elsewhere,  or  lately,  been  so  much  accustomed  to  the 
encounter  of  good  will  as  to  withstand  the  shock  firmly,  that 
I  thus  attempt  to  commemorate  your  good  qualities,  or  rather 
the  advantages  which  I  have  derived  from  their  exertion.  Even 
the  recurrence  to  the  date  of  this  letler,  the  anniversary  of  the 
most  iinfortunate  day  of  my  past  existence,  but  whicii  cannot 
poison  my  future  while  I  retain  the  resource  of  your  friendship, 
and  of  my  own  faculties,  will  henceforth  have  a  more  agreeable 
recollection  for  both,  inasnnich  as  it  will  remind  us  of  this  my 
attempt  to  thank  you  for  an  indefatigable  regard,  such  as  few 
men  have  experienced,  and  no  one  could  experience  without 
thinking  better  of  his  species  and  of  himself. 


200  CniLDE  HAROLD'S 

It  lias  bfiMi  om-  Ibrtiine  to  traverse  tosather,  ;it  various  pe- 
riods,   the  countries  of  chivalry,    history,    ami   I'able— Spain, 
Greece,  Asia  Minor,  and  Italy ;  and  what  Athens  and  Con- 
stantinople were  to  us  a  lew  years  ago,  Venice  and  Rome  have 
been  more  recently.     The  poem  also,  or  the  pilgrim,  or  both, 
have  accompanied  me  from  first  to  l.ist ;  and  perhaps  it  may  be 
a  pardonable  vanity  which  induces  me  to  reflect  with  compla- 
cency on  a  composition  which   in  some  degree  connects  me 
with  the  spot  where  it  was  produced,  and  the  objects  it  woulil 
fain  describe  ;  and  however  unworthy  it  may  be  deemed  of  those, 
magical  and  memorable  abodes,  however  short  it  may  fall  of 
ouAlistant  conceptions  and  immediate    impressions,  yet  as  a 
mark  of  respect  for  what  is  venerable,  and  of  feeling  for  what 
is  glorious,  it  has  been  to  me  a  scource  of  pleasure  in  the  pro- 
duction, and  I  part  with  it  with  a  kind  of  regset,  which  I  hardly 
suspected  that  events  could  have  left  me  for  imaginary  objects. 
With  regard  to  the  conduct  of  the  last  canto,  there  will  be 
found  less  of  the  pilgrim  than  in   any  of  the  preceding,  and 
that  little  slightly,  if  at  all,  separated  from  the  author  speaking 
in  his  own  person.     The  fact  is,  that  I  had  become  weary  of 
drawing  a  line  wiiich  every  on^^  seemed  determined  not  to  per- 
ceive :  "like  the  Chinese  in  Goldsmith's  *  Citizen  of  the  World,' 
whom' nobody  would  believe  to  be  a  Chinese,  it  was  in  vain  that 
I  asserted,  and  imagined,   that  I  had  drawn  a  distinction  V.e- 
tween  the  author  and  the  pilgrim  ;  and  the  very  anxiety  fo 
preserve  this  dilference,  and   disappointment  at  finding  it  una- 
vailing, so  lar  crushed  my  efforts  in  the  comjiosition,  that  I  de- 
termined to  abandon  it  'altogether— and  have  done  so-     The 
opinions  which  have  been,  or  may  be,  formed  on  that  subject, 
are  now  a  mailer  of  indifference;    the  work  is  to  depend  on 
ilself,  and  not  on  the  writer;    and  the  author  who  has  no  re- 
sources in  his  own  mind  beyond  the  reputation,  transient  or 
permanent,  which  is  to  arise  from  his  literary  efforts,  deserves 
the  fate  of  authors. 

In  the  course  of  the  following  Canto  it  was  my  intention, 
either  in  tlie  text  or  in  the  notes,  to  have  touched  upon  the 
present  state  of  Italian  literature,  and  perhaps  of  manners. 
But  the  text,  within  the  limits  I  proposed,  I  soon  found  hardly 
sufficient  for  the  labyrinth  of  external  objects,  and  the  conse- 
quent reflections  ;  and  lor  the  whole  of  the  notes,  excepting  a 
few  of  the  shortest,  I  am  indebted  to  yourself,  and  these  were 
necessarily  limited  to  the  elucidation  of  the  text. 

It  is  also  a  delicate,  and  no  very  grateful  task,  to  dissert  upon 
the  literature  and  manners  of  a  nation  so  dissimilar  ;  and  re- 
quires an  attention  and  impartiality  which  would  induce  us,— 
though  perhaps  no  inattentive  observers,  nor  ignorant  of  the 
language  or  customs  of  the  people  amongst  whom  we  have  re- 
tenUy  abode,— to  distrust;  or  at  least  defer  our  judgment,  and 


'  PILGRIMAGE.  201 

more  nnno  ,vly  examine  our  information.  The  state  of  literary, 
itsfwell  as  political  party  appears  to  run,  or  to  have  run,  so  high, 
that  for  a  straniifer  to  steer  impartially  between  them  is  next  to 
imi)os«ible.  It  may  be  enough  then,  at  least  for  ni}-  purpose,  to 
(|uote  from  tiieir  own  beautiiul  language — '  Mi  pare  che  in  un 
paese  Intto  poetico,  che  vanta  la  lingua  la  piii  nobileed  insieme 
la  pill  (lolce,  tutte  tutte  le  vie  diverse  si  possono  tentare,  e  che 
sinche  la  patria  di  Allieri  e  di  Monti  non  ha  perduto  1'  antico 
va'.ore,  in  tutte  essa  dovrebbe  essere  la  prima.'  Italy  has  great 
names  still— Canova,  Monti,  Ugo  Foscolo,  Piiideraonte,  Vis- 
conti,  Morelii,  Cicognara,  Albriz/J,  Mezzophanli,  Mai,  Mus- 
toxidi,  Aglietti,  and  Vacca,  will  secure  to  the  present  genera- 
tion an  honourable  place  in  most  of  the  departments  of  Art, 
Science,  and  Belles  Lettres  ;  and  in  some  the  very  highest- 
Europe— the  World — has  but  one  Canova. 

It  bus  been  somewhere  said  by  Alfieri,that '  La  pianta  uomo 
nasce  piii  robusta  in  Italia  che  in  qualunque  altra  terra — e  che 
gli  stassi  atroci  delitti  che  vi  si  coniniettono  ne  sono  una  prova. 
Without  subscribing  to  the  latter  part  of  bis  proposition,  a  dan- 
gerous doctrine,  the  truth  of  which  may  be  disputed  on  better 
grounds,  namely,  that  the  Italians  are  in  no  respect  more  fe- 
rocious than  their  neighbours  ;  that  man  must  be  wilfully  blind, 
or  ignorantly  heedless,  who  is  not  struck  with  the  extraordi- 
nary capacity  of  this  people,  or  if  such  a  word  be  admissible, 
their  capabiiUies,  the  facility  of  their  acquisitions,  the  rapidity  of 
their  conceptions,  the  fire  of  their  genius,  their  sense  of  beauty, 
and  amidst  all  the  disadvantages  of  repeated  revolutions,  the  de- 
solation of  battles  and  the  despair  of  ages,  their  still  unquenchetl 
"  longing  after  immortality,"— the  immortality  of  indepen- 
dence. And  when  we  ourselves,  in  riding  round  the  walls  of 
Rome,  heard  the  simple  lament  of  the  labourers'  chorus, 
"Roma!  Roma"!  Roma  I  Roma  non  e  piii  come  era  prima," 
it  was  diiricult  not  to  coiitrast  this  melancholy  dirge  with  the 
bacchanal  roar  of  the  songs  of  exultation  still  yelled  from  the 
London  taverns,  over  the  carnage  of  Mont  St.  Jean,  and  the 
betrayal  of  Geno;i.,  of  Italy,  of  France,  and  of  the  world,  by 
men  whose  conduct  you  yourself  have  exposed  in  a  work 
worthy  of  the  better  days  of  our  history.     For  me, 

'  Non  movero  mai  corda 
<  Ove  la  turba  di  sue  ciance  assorda.' 
What  Italy  has  gained  by  the  lat.^  transfer  of  nations,  it 
were  useless  for  Knglishmeu  to  inquire,  Ull  it  becomes  ascer- 
tained that  England  has  acquired  something  more  than  a  per- 
manent army  and  a  susjjende  I  Habeas  Corpus ;  it  is  enougli 
for  them  to  look  at  home.  For  what  they  have  done  abroad, 
and  especially  in  the  South,  "  Verily  they  will  have  their  re- 
ward," and-atno  very  distant  period. 


202  CHLDE  HAROLD'S 

Wishing  joii,  n\y  dear  Mobbouse,  n  safe  and  agreeable  re- 
iiirn  to  tiial  country  whose  real  well'are  can  be  dearer  to  none 
than  to  yourself,  I  dedicate  to  you  this  poem  in  its  completed 
state ;  and  repeat  once  more  how  truly  I  am  ever 

Your  obliged 
And  affectionate  IVieiid^ 

muoN. 


PILGRIMACE.  205 


€i)il^t  W^.avoWss  JJilgrimage. 


CANTO    IV 


Visto  ho  Tosyana,  Lombardia,  Ilomagna, 

Quel  Monte  che  divide,  e  quel  che  serra 
Italia,  e  uii  mare  e  Faltro,  che  la  bagna. 

Ariosto,  Saliva  iii. 


I. 

I  stood  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  ; 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand  : 
I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structure  rise 
As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter's  wand  : 
A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  expand 
Around  me,  and  a  dying  glory  smiles 
O'er  the  far  times,  when  many  a  subject  land 
Looked  to  the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles, 
Where  Venice  sate  in  state,  throned  on  her  hundred  Isles  I 

II. 

She  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean, 
Rising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers 
At  airy  distance,  with  majestic  motion, 
A  ruler  of  the  waters  ajid  their  powers : 
And  such  she  was ; — her  daughters  had  their  dowers 
From  spoils  of  nations,  and  the  exhaustless  East 
Poured  in  her  lap  all  gems  in  sparkling  showers. 
In  purple  was  she  robed,  and  of  her  feast 
Monarchs  partook,  and  deemed  their  dignity  increased. 

in. 

In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more. 
And  silent  rows  the  songless  gondolier; 
Her  palaces  are  crumbling  to  the  shore, 
And  music  meets  not  aiwajs  now  the  ear; 
I'hose  days  are  gone — but  beauty  still  is  hire, 
States  fall,  arts  faile— but  Nature  doth  not  die. 
Nor  yet  forget  how  Venice  once  was  de«r, 
The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity, 
The  revel  of  the  eavlh,  the  mai'iiie  ol   Italy  ! 


204  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

IV. 

Bui  unto  us  slie  bath  a  spell  beyond 

Her  name  in  story,  and  her  long  array 

Of  mighty  shadows,  whose  dim  I'orms  despond 

Above  the  dogeless  city's  vanished  sway  ; 

Ours  is  a  trophy  which  will  not  decay 

With  tile  Rialto ;  Siiylock  and  the  Moor, 

And  Pierre,  can  not  be  swept  or  worn  away — 

The  keystones  of  tlie  aich  !  though  all  were  o'er. 

For  us  repeopled  were  the  solitary  shore. 

V. 
The  bei!!gs  of  the  mind  are  not  of  clay  ; 
Essentially  immortal,  tl'.ey  create 
And  multiply  in  us  a  brighter  ray 
And  more  beloved  existence  :  that  which  F^te 
Prohibits  to  dull  life,  in  this  our  state 
Of  mortal  bondage,  by  these  spirits  supplied 
First  exiles,  then  reiilaces  whai  we  hate  ; 
Watering  the  heart  whose  early  flowers  have  died, 

And  with  a  fresher  growth  replenishing  the  void. 

VI. 
Such  is  the  refuge  of  our  youth  and  age, 
The  first  from  Hope,  the  last  from  Vacancy; 
And  this  worn  feeling  peoples  many  a  page, 
And,  may  be,  that  which  grows  beneath  mine  eye  : 
Yet  there  are  things  whose  strong  reality 
Oiitshines  our  fairy-land  ;   in  shape  and  hues 
More  beautiful  than  our  lantastic  sky. 
And  the  strange  consteihitions  which  the  Muse 

O'er  her  wild  universe  is  skilful  to  ditluse  : 

VH. 
1  saw  or  dreamed  of  such, — but  let  them  go — 
They  came  like  truth,  and  disappeared  like  dreams; 
And  whatsoe'er  they  were — are  now  but  so  : 
I  could  replace  them  if  1  would,  still  teems 
My  mind  with  many  a  form  which  aptly  seems 
Such  as  ]  sougiit  for,  and  at  moments  found  ; 
Letthese  too  go— for  waking  Reason  deems 
Such  over-weening  phantasies  unsound. 

And  other  voices  speak,  and  other  sights  surround- 

vin. 

I've  taught  me  other  ton^^ues— and  in  strange  eves 
Have  ma.le  me  not  a  stranger  ;  to  the  mind 
AVhich  is  itself,  no  changes  bring  surprise  ; 
I^'or  is  it  harsh  to  make,  nor  hard  to  find 
A  country  with— oy,  or  without  mankind  ; 
Vet  was  I  born  where  men  arc  proud  to  be, 


'  PILGRIMAGE.  20.5 

Not  without  cause  ;  and  should  I  leave  behind 
The  inviolate  island  of  the  sage  anil  free,- 
And  seek  me  out  a  home  by  a  remoter  sea. 

IX. 

Perhaps  I  loved  it  well :  and  should  I  lay 
My  cishes  in  a  soil  which  is  not  mine, 
My  spirit  shall  resume  it— if  we  may 
Unbodied  choose  a  sanctuarj'»     I  twine 
My  hopes  of  being  remembered  in  my  line 
With  my  land's  language  :  if  too  fond  and  far 
These  aspirations  in  their  scope  incline — 
If  my  fame  should  be,  as  my  fortunes  are, 
Of  hasty  growth  and  blight,  and  dull  Oblivion  bar 

X. 

My  name  from  out  the  temple  where  the  dead 
Are  honoured  by  the  nations— let  it  be 
And  light  the  laurels  on  a  loftier  head  ! 
And  be  the  Spartan's  epitaph  on  me — 
"  Sparta  hath  many  a  worthier  son  than  be." 
Meantime  I  seek  no  sympathies,  nor  need ; 
The  thorns  which  I  have  reaped  are  of  the  tree 
T  planted — they  have  torn  me — and  I  bleed  : 
I  ijiould  have  known  what  fruit  would  spring  from  such  a  seed. 

XI. 

The  spouseless  Adriatic  mourns  her  lord. 
And,  annual  marriage  now  no  more  renewed, 
The  Bucentaur  lies  rotting  unrestored. 
Neglected  garment  of  her  widowhood  ! 
St.  Mark  yet  sees  his  Lion  where  he  stood, 
Stand  but  in  mockery  of  his  withered  power. 
Over  the  proud  Place  where  an  Emperor  sued. 
And  monarchs  gazed  and  envied  in  the  hour 

W^hen  Venice  was  a  queen  with  an  unequalled  dower. 

XIL 
The  Suabian  sued,  and  now  the  Au  strian  reigns 
An  Emperor  tramples  where  an  Emperor  knelt ; 
Kingdoms  are  shrunk  to  provinces,  and  chains 
Clank  over  sceptered  cities  ;  nations  melt 
From  power's  high  pinnacle,  wlien  they  have  felt 
The  sunshine  for  a  while,  and  downward  go 
Like  lauwine  loosened  from  the  mountain's  belt 
Oh  !   for  one  hour  of  blind  old  Dandolo  ! 

Til'  octogenarian  chief,  Byzantium's  conquering  foe. 

xiir. 

Before  St.  Mark  still  glows  his  steeds  of  brass, 
Their  gilded  collars  glittering  in  the  sun  : 
But  is  not  Doria's  menace  come  to  pass? 

S 


■206 


CHILUE  HAROLD  S 


Are  they  r/ot  bridled  ?  Venice,  lost  ami  wwi. 
Her  thirteen  hundreii  years  ol  Ireedom  iloiic, 
Sinks  like  a  sea-weed,  into  wlience  she  rose  ! 
Uetter  be  whelmed  benealh  the  waves  and  shun. 
Even  iT»  destruction's  depth,  her  foreign  lots. 

From  whom  submission  uriugs  an  inlamous  reijose. 

XIV. 
In  youth  she  was  all  glory—  a  new  Tyre, 
Her  very  by-word  sprung  t'roni-Vietory, 
Tlie  "  i'lanter  ot  the  Lion,-'  wliich  llao'  Fire 
And  blood  she  bore  o'er  subject  earth  and*ea  ; 
Tho'  making  many  slaves,  her>ell  still  Tree, 
And  Europe's  bulwark  'gainst  tne  Otlomite  y 
Witness  Troy's  rival,  Candia  !     \'ou(li  il,  ye 
Immortal  waves  that  sr.w  Lepanto's  liglu  ! 

For  ye  are  names  no  time  nor  t.\r.  iiny  can  blight. 

XV. 
Statutes  of  glass — all  sliiveved  — tlie  long  file 
Of  her  dead  Doges  are  declined  to  dust ; 
But  where  they  dwelt,  the  vast  and  sumptuous  pile 
Bespeaks  the  p'ageant  of  thei.-  spk-ndid  trust  ; 
Their  sceptre  broken,  and  theii  sword  in  rust,  ^ 

Have  yielded  to  the  stranger  :  empty  halls, 
Thin  streets,  and  foreign  aspects,  such  as  must 
Too  oft  remind  her  wuo  and  what  enthrals, 

Have  tiung  a  desolate  cloud  o'er  Venice'  lovely  walls. 

XV]. 
When  Athens'  armies  fell  at  S3racuse, 
And  fettered  thousands  bore  the  yoke  of  war, 
lU'demptioii  rose  up  in  the  Attic  Muse, 
Her  voice  their  only  ransom  from  alar: 
See  !  as  they  chauiit  the  tragic  h3mn,  the  car 
Ol  the  o'ei mastered  victor  stops,  the  reins 
Fall  from  his  hands— ids  idle  scimitar 
Starts  from  its  belt— he  rends  his  captive's  chains, 

And  bills  bim  thuuk  the  b;ud  for  heedoiii  and  his  strains. 

XVH. 
Thus,  Venice,  if  no  stronger  claim  were  thine, 
Were  all  in)  i)rouil  hisunic  deeus  loigol, 
Tliy  choral  memory  oi   thv,-  Hard  divine, 
Thy  love  of  'I';isso,  should  liave  cut  the  knot 
Vv'hich  ties  thee  to  thy  tyrants  ;  and  thy  bil 
Is  shameful  to  the  nations,—  most  of  all, 
AU)ion  !  tothes  :  the  Ocean  queen  shoiiiJ  not 
A!)rt«don  Ocean's  childn  n  ;  in  the  fall 

Of  Venice  think  ol  thine,  de-pite  thy  watery  w«ll. 


I 


\ 


PILUKiiVIAGE.  20T 

XVIII. 

I  loved  liei  liom  my  bo3l)uoil — she  (o  me 
\\';is  iis  a  lairy  ciij  ol  the  heart,  , 

Rising  like  water  columns  trom  (lie  sea, 
Ol  ji)y  the  sojitnrn,  anil  of  wealth  the  mart ; 
And  Olway,  Radciiil'e,  Schiller,  Siiakes^ieare's  art. 
Had  stamped  her  image  in  me,  and  even  so, 
Although  I  iouiid  her  ihus,  we  did  not  part, 
ferchance  even  dearer  in  her  day  of  woe. 
Than  when  she  was  a  boast,  a  marvel,  auil  a  show. 

XTX. 

I  can  repeoplc  with  the  past — and  of 
Tiie  preseiii,  there  is  still  ior  eye  and  thought, 
And  meditation  chastened  down,  enough  ; 
And  more,  it  may  he,  than  I  hoped  or  sought  ; 
And  of  the  happiest  moments  which  were  wrought 
Within  the  weli  of  my  existence,  some 
I'roin  thee,  fair  Venice  !   have  their  colours  caught : 
There  are  some  feelings  Tune  can  not  benumb. 
Nor  Torture  shake,  or  mine  would  now  be  cold  and  dumb. 

XX. 
Hut  from  their  nature  will  the  ta::nen  grow 
i>oltirst  on  kiHie.st  and  lenst  shelU red  rocks, 
Hooted  in  barrenness,  where  nought  below 
Of  soil  supports  them  'gainst  the  Alpine  shocks 
Of  eddying  storms  ;  yel  springs  the  trunk,  and  mocks 
The  howling  tempest,  till  its  height  and  frame 
Are  worthy  of  the  mountains  from  whose  blocks 
Of  blakc,  gray  granite,  into  life  it  came. 
And  grew  a  giant  iree  ;— the  mind  may  grow  the  same. 

XXI. 
Existence  may  be  borne,  and  the  deep  root 
Of  life  and  sutlerance  make  its  firm  abode 
In  bare  and  desolated  bo.>oms  ;  mute 
The  camel  labours  witii  the  iieaviest  load, 
And  the  wolf  dies  in  silence,- — not  bestowed 
In  vain  should  such  example  be  ;  if  tiny, 
Things  of  ignoble  or  of  savage  mood, 
Endure  and  shrink  not,  we  of  nobler  clay 
May  temper  it  to  bear, — it  is  but  lor  u  day. 

XXIJ. 
All  suffering  doth  destroy,  or  is  dastroyed, 
Kven  by  the  sufferer  ;  aiul,  in  each  event 
Ends  :— Some,  with  hope  replenished  and  rebuoyed, 
Return  to  whence  they  came— with  like  iiiL-nt, 
AimI  weave  their  web  again ;  some,  bowed  and  bent, 
VViwc  gray  and  ghastly,  withering  ere  their  time, 


208  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

And  perish  with  the  reed  on  which  they  leant ; 
Some  seek  devotion,  toil,  war,  good  or  crime, 
According  as  their  souls  were  formed  to  sink  or  climb- 

XXIII. 
But  ever  and  anon  of  griefs  suhdued 
There  comes  a  token  like  a  scorpion's  sting, 
Scarce  seen,  but  with  fresh  bitterness  imbued  ; 
And  slight  withal  may  be  the  things  which  bring 
Back  on  the  heart  the  weight  which  it  would  fling 
Aside  for  ever  :   it  may  be  a  sound — 
A  tone  of  music — summer's  eve — or  spring, 
A  flower — the  wind — the  ocean — which  shall  wound. 

Striking  the  electric  chain  wherewith  we  are  darkly  bound ; 

XXIV. 
And  how  and  why  we  know  not,  nor  can  tiace 
Home  to  its  cloud  this  lightning  of  the  mind, 
But  feel  the  shock  renewed,  nor  can  eft'uce 
The  blight  and  blackening  which  it  leaves  behind, 
Which  out  of  things  familiar,  undesigned, 
When  least  we  deem  of  such,  calls  up  to  view 
The  spectres  whom  no  exorcism  can  bind, 
The  cold — the  changed — perchance  the  dead— anew, 

The  mourned,  the  loved,  the  lost— too  many  yet  how  few  ! 

XXV. 

But  my  soul  wanders ;  I  demand  it  back 
To  meditate  amongst  decay,  and  stand 
A  ruin  amidst  ruins ;  there  to  track 
Fallen  states  and  buried  greatness,  o'er  a  land 
Which  iras  the  mightiest  in  its  old  command, 
And  is  the  loveliest,  and  must  ever  be 
The  master-mould  of  Nature's  heavenly  hand, 
AVherein  were  cast  the  heroic  and  the  free, 
The  beautiful  the  brave — the  lords  of  earth  and  sea, 

XXVI. 

The  commonwealth  of  kinds,  the  men  of  Rome  ! 

And  even  since,  and  now,  fair  Italy! 

Thou  art  the  garden  of  the  world,  the  home 

Of  all  Art  yields,  and  Nature  can  decree  ; 

Even  in  tliy  desart,  what  is  like  to  thee  ? 

Thy  very  weeds  are  beautiful,  thy  waste 

JMore  rich  than  other  climes'  fertility  ; 
,    Thy  wreck  a  glory,  and  thy  ruin  graced 
With  an  immaculate  charm  which  can  not  be  defaced. 

XXVII. 

The  Moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night- 
Sunset  divides  the  sky  with  her — a  sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  Alpine  height 
Of  blue  Friuli's  mountains  ;  Heaven  is  free 
From  clouds,  but  of  all  colours,  seems  to  be 


PILGRIMAGE.  209 

RIelfed  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  Wesf, 
M''here  the  Da)'  Joins  the  past  Eternity  ; 
\Vhile  on  the  other  hand,  meelv  Dian's  crest 
Floats  thro'  the  azure  air — an  island  of  tlie  blest ! 

XXVIII. 

A  single  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 
With  her  o'er  half  the  lovely  heaven  ;  but  still 
Yon  sunny  sea  heaves  brightly,  and  remains 
Ilolled  o'er  the  peak  of  the  far  Rhsetian  hill. 
As  Day  and  Night  obntending  were,  until 
Nature  reclaimed  lier  order  :  gently  flows 
The  deep-dyed  Brenta,  where  their  hues  instil 
The  odorous  purple  of  a  new-bom  rose, 
Which  streams  upon  her  stream,  and  glassed  within  i«  glows, 

XXIX. 

Filleil  with  the  face  of  heaven,  which,  from  afar, 
Comes  down  upon  the  waters  ;  all  its  hues, 
From  the  rich  sunset  to  the  rising  star, 
Their  magical  variety  ditt'uset 
And  now  they  change  :  a  paler  shadow  strews 
Its  mantle  o'er  the  mountains  ;  parting  day 
Dies  like  the  dolphin,  whom  each  pang  Imbues 
With  a  new  colour  as  it  gasps  away. 
The  last  still  loveliest,  till— 'tis  gone — and  all  is  gray. 

XXX. 

There  is  a  tomb  in  Arqua  ; — reared  in  air 

Pillared  in  their  sarcophagus,  repose 

The  bones  of  Laura's  lover  ;  here  repair 

Many  familiar  with  his  well-sung  woes; 

The  pilgrims  of  his  genius.     He  arose 

To  raise  a  langua  re,  and  his  land  reclaim 

From  the  dull  yoke  of  her  barbaric  foes  ; 

Watering  the  tree  which  bears  his  lady's  name 
With  his  melodious  tears,  he  gave  himself  to  fame. 

XXXI. 

They  keep  his  dust  in  Arqua,  where  he  died  ; 

The  mountain-village  where  his  latter  lUiys 

.  Went  down  the  vale  of  years  ;  and  'tis  their  pride — 

An  honest  pride — and  let  it  be  their  praise, 

To  oiler  to  tire  passing  stranger's  gaze 

His  mansion  and  his  sepulchre  ;  both  plaitt 

And  venerably  simple,  such  as  raise 

A  feeling  more  accordant  with  his  strain 
Than  if  a  pyramid  formed  his  monumental  fane. 

XXXII. 

And  the  soft  quiet  hamlet  wJiere  he  dwelt 

Is  one  of  that  complexion  which  seems  made 

For  those  who  tlieir  mortality  liave  felt, 

S2 


210  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

Ami  sou2:ht  a  refuge  for  their  hopes  decayed 
In  Ihe  deep  umbrage  of  a  green  hill's  shade, 
AVhich  shows  a  distant  prospect  far  away 
Of  busy  cities,  now  in  vain  displayed, 
For  they  can  lure  no  further ;  and  the  ray 
Of  a  bright  sun  can  make  sufficient  holiday. 

XXXIII. 

Developing  the  mountains,  leaves,  and  flowers. 
And  shining  in  the  brawling  brook,  where-bj', 
Clear  as  its  current,  glide  the  sauntering  hours 
With  a  calm  languor,  which,  though  to  the  eye 
Idlesse  it  seem,  hath  its  morality. 

II  from  society  we  learn  to  live, 

"Tis  solitude  should  teach  us  how  lo  die  ; 
It  hath  no  flatterers ;  vanity  can  give 
No  hollow  aid  ;  alone — man  with  his  Go<.l  must  strive  : 

XXXIV. 

Or,  it  may  be,  with  demons,  wiio  impair 

The  strength  of  better  thoughts,  and  seek  their  prey 

III  melancholy  bosoms,  such  as  were 

Of  moody  texture  IVoni  their  earliest  da)'. 
And  loved  to  dwell  in  darkness  and  dismay. 
Deeming  themselves  predestined  to  a  doom 
U  hich  is  not  of  the  jutngs  that  p:iss  away  ; 
i^Iaking  the  sun  like  blood,  tiie  earth  a  tomb,     " 

The  tomb  a  hell,  and  hell  itself  a  murkier  gloom, 

XXXV. 
Ferrara  !  in  thy  wide  and  grass-grown  streets. 
Whose  symmetry  was  not  lor  solitude, 
There  seems  as  Hwere  a  curse  upon  the  seats 
Of  former  sovereigns,  and  the  antique  brood 
Of  Este,  which  for  many  an  age  made  good 
Its  strength  within  tliy  walls,  and  was  of  yore 
Patron  or  tyrant,  as  the  changing  mood 
Of  petty  power  impelled,  of  those  who  wore 

The  wreath  which  Dante's  brow  alone  had  worn  before. 

XXXVI. 

And  Tasso  is  their  glory  and  their  shame, 
Hark  to  his  strain  !   ami  then  survey  iiis  cell ! 
And  see  how  dearly  earned  Torquato's  fame. 
And  where  Alfonso  bade  his  poet  dwell  j 
The  miserable  despot  could  not  quell 
The  insulted  mind  he  sought  lo  quench,  and  blemi 
With  the  surrounding  maniacs,  in  the  hell 
Where  he  Lath  plunged  it.     Glory  without  end, 
Scattered  the  clouds  away— and  on  that  name  attend. 


'  PILGRIMAGE.  iil 

XXXVII. 

The  teais  and  praises  of  all  time  ;  while  thine 

Would  rot  in  its, oblivion — in  the  sink 

Of  worthless  diist,  which  from  the  boasted  line 

Is  shaking  into  nothing  ;  but  the  link 

Thou  formest  in  his  fortunes  bids  us  think 

Of  thy  poor  malice,  naming  thee  with  scorn — 

Alfonso  1   how  thy  ducal  pageants  shrink 

From  thee  !  if  in  another  station  born, 
Scarce  fit  to  be  the  slave  of  him  thou  mad'st  to  mourn  : 

XXXVIII. 

Thou  !  formed  to  eat,  and  be  despised,  and  die. 

Even  as  the  beasts  that  perish,  save  that  thou 

Hadst  a  more  splendid  trough  and  wider  sty  ; 

He !  with  a  glory  round  his  furrowed  brow. 

Which  emanated  then,  and  dazzjes  now 

In  face  of  all  his  foes,  the  Cruscan  quire. 

And  Boileau,  whose  rash  envy  could  allow 

No  strain  which  shamed  his  country's  creaking  lyre, 
Tiiat  whetstone  of  the  teeth— monotony  in  wire  ! 

XXXIX. 

Peace  to  Torquato's  injured  shade  !   'twas  his 
In  life  and  death  to  be  the  mark  where  Wrong 
Aimed  with  her  poisoned  arrows  ;  but  to  miss. 
Oh,  victor  unsurpassed  in  modern  song  ! 
Each  year  brings  forth  its  millions  ;  but  how  long 
The  tide  of  generations  shall  roll  on. 
And  not  the  whole  combined  and  countless  throng 
'    Compose  a  mind  like  thine?  though  all  in  one 
Condensed  their  scattered  rays,  they  would  not  form  a  sun. 

XL. 

Great  as  thou  art,  yet  paralleled  by  those, 
Thy  countryman,  before  thee  born  to  shine, 
The  Bards  of  Hell  and  Chivalry  ;  first  rose 
The  Tuscan  father's  come<ly  divine; 
Then,  not  unequal  to  tlie  Florentine, 
The  southern  Scott,  the  minstrel  who  called  forth 
A  new  creation  with  his  magic  line. 
And,  like  the  Ariosto  of  tlie  North, 
Sang  ladye-love  and  war,  romance  and  knightly  worth. 

XLI. 

Tlie  lightning  rent  from  Ario.-to's  bust 

The  iron  crown  of  laurel's  mimic'd  leaves  ; 

Nor  was  the  ominous  element  unjust. 

For  the  true  laurel-wreath  which  Glory  weaves 

Is  of  the  tree  no  bolt  of  thunder  cleaves. 

And  the  false  semblance  but  disgraced  his  brow  i 

Yet  still,  if  fondly  Superstition  grieves, 


212  CHILDE  Harold  s 

Know,  tiiat  the  lijrhtnlncr  sanctiflas  below 

W.'uttii'er  it  strikes  ;— yon  liesui  is  doubly  sacred  now  . 

XLII. 
Italia  !  oh  Italia  !   thou  who  hast 
The  fatal  (^il't  of  beauty,  which  became 
A  funeral  ilower  of  present  woes  and  past, 
On  thy  sweet  brow  is  sorrow  jjlouajiied  by  shame, 
And  annals  graved  in  characters  of  fl;ime. 
Oh  God  !   that  thou  wert  in  thy  nakedness 
Less  lovely  or  more  powerful,  and  could'st  claim 
Tliy  right,  and  awe  the  robbers  back,  who  press 

To  shed  thy  blood,  and  drink  the  tears  of  thy  distress  5 

XLHL 
Then  might'st  thou  more  appal ;  or,  least  desired. 
Be  homely  and  be  peaceful,  undeplorexl 
For  thy  destructive  charms  ;  then,   still  untired, 
Would  not  be  seen  the  arme^l  torrents  poured 
Down  the  deep  Alps  ;  nor  would  the  hostile  horde 
Of  many-nalioned  spoilers  from  the  Po 
Quart"  blood  and  water  ;  nor  the  stranger's  sword 
By  thy  sad  weapon  of  defence,  and  so, 

Victor  or  vaniiuished,  thou  the  slave  of  friend  or  foe. 

XLTV. 
Wandering  i)i  youth,  I  traced  the  path  of  him, 
The  Roman  friend  of  Rome's  least  mortal  mind. 
The  friend  of  Tnlly  :  as  my  bark  did  skim 
The  bright  blue  waters  with  a  farming  wind. 
Came  Megara  before  me,  and  behind 
/Egina  lay,  Pineiis  on  the  right, 
And  Corinth  on  the  left;   I  lay  reclined 
Along  the  prow,  and  saw  all  these  unite 

In  ruin,  even  as  he  had  seen  the  desolate  sight  ; 

XLV. 
For  time  hath  not  rebuilt  them,  but  npreared 
Barbaric  dwellings  on  their  shattered  site, 
Which  only  make  more  mourned  and  more  endeared 
The  few  last  rays  of  their  far-scattered  liglit. 
And  the  crushed  relics  of  their  vanished  mifxlit. 
The  Roman  saw  these  tombs  in  his  own  age. 
These  sepidchres  of  cities,  which  excite 
Slid  wonder,  and  his  yet  surviving  page 

The  mural  lesson  bears,  drawn  from  such  pilgrimage. 

XLVI. 
That  page  is  now  before  me,  and  on  mine 
His  country's  ruin  added  to  the  mass 
Of  perished  states  he  mourned  in  their  decline, 
And  I  in  desolation  :  all  that  vus 


PILGRIMAGE.  213 

Of  then  (leslruction  /*•;  and  now,  alas  ! 

Home— Rome  imperial,  bows  lier  to  tbe  storm. 

1q  tlie  same  dust  and  blackaass,  and  we  pass 

The  skeleton  of  her  Titanic  form, 
Wrecks  of  another  v/orld,  whose  asiies  still  are  warm. 

XLVII. 

Yet,  Italy  !  through  every  oiher  huid 

Thy  wrongs  should  ring,  and  shall,  from  side  to  side  ; 

Mi')ther  of  Arts  !  as  once  of  arms  ;  thy  hand 

Was  then  our  guardian,  and  is  still  our  guide  ; 

Pare)it  of  our  Religion  !   wliom  the  wide 

Nations  have  knelt  to  for  the  keys  of  heaven  ! 

Europe,  repentant  of  her  parricide, 

Shait  yet  redeem  thee,  and,  all  backward  driven. 
Roll  the  barbarian  tide,  and  sue  to  be  forgiven. 

XL  VIII. 

But  Arno  wins  us  to  the  fair  white  walls, 

Where  the  Etrurian  Athens  claims  and  kaeps 

A  softer  leeling  for  her  I'airy  halls. 

Girt  by  her  theatre  of  hills,  she  reaps 

Her  corn,  and  wine,  and  Plenty  leaps 

To  laughing  life,  with  her  redundant  horn 

Along  the  banks  where  smiling  Arno  sweeps 

Was  modern  Luxury  of  Commerce  born. 
Anil  buried  Learnmg  rose,  redeemed  to  a  new  morn. 

XLTX. 

There,  too.  the  Goddess  loves  in  stone,  and  fills 

The  air  around  with  beauty  ;  we  inhale 

The  ambrosial  .ispect,  which,  beheld,  instils 

Part  of  its  immorUility  ;  the  veil 

Of  heaven  is  half  undrawn  ;  within  the  pale 

We  stand,  and  in  that  form  and  face  behold 

What  Mind  can  make,  when  Nature's  self  would  tail  ; 

And  to  the  fond  idolaters  of  old 
Envy  the  innate  flash  which  such  a  soul  could  mould. 

L. 

We  gaze  and  turn  away,  and  known  not  where, 
Dazzled  and  drunk  with  beauty,  till  the  heart 
Reels  with  its  fulness ;  there— for  ever  there  - 
Chained  to  the  chariot  of  triumphal  Art, 
We  stand  as  captives,  and  would  not  depart. 
_^^vay  !— there  need  no  words,  nor  terms  precise. 
The  paltrj'  jargon  of  the  marble  mart. 
Where  pedantry  gulls  FoUy-we  have  eyes  : 
Blood-pulse-and   breast,   confirm   the   Dardan    Shepherds 
prize. 


214  (  HU.fJi:  HAROLD'S 

Lr. 

AlipcaiMst  l.'ioii  lUit  fo  I'aris  in  this  guise  ? 
Or  to  more  dceph-  blest  Atifiiises  ?  or, 
In  nil  liiy  perfect  goildcss-shin,  when  lies 
Before  thee  thy  own  ViUHiiiished  Lord  of  War? 
And  fj-rizing  in  thy  face  us  toward  a  star, 
Tyaid  on  thy  lap,  his  ey<'S  to  thee  nptiirn, 
Feediiia;  on  thy  sweet  cliei^k  !    while  thy  lips  are 
Willi  luva  kisses  melting  while  they  burn, 
Showered  on  his  eyelids,  brow,  Hnd  mouth,  as  from  un  urn  ! 

LIL 

Glowing,  and  circumfused  in  speechless  love, 
Tiieir  lull  divinity  inadequate 
That  feeling  to  express,  or  to  improve, 
The  gods  become  as  mortals,  and  man's  fafe 
JIiis  moments  like  their  briglitest ;  but  the  weight 
Ot  earth  recoils  upon  us; — let  it  go  ! 
We  can  recal  such  visions,  and  create, 
From  what  has  been,  or  might  be,  things  which  grow 
Into  thy  sttitute's  form,  and  look  like  gods  below. 

LIIL 

I  leave  to  learned  fingers,  and  wise  hands. 
The  artist  and  his  ape,  to  teach  and  tell 
How  well  his  connoisseur;  hip  understands 
The  graceful  bend,  and  t!ie  volupluous  swell : 
Let  these  describe  the  undoscribable  : 
J  would  not  their  vile  breath  should  crisp  the  slreum 
^Vherein  that  image  shall  for  ever  dwell  ; 
The  unrunied  mirror  of  the  loveIi"fit  dream 
That  ever  left  the  sky  on  the  deep  soul  to  beam. 

LIV. 

In  Santa  Croce's  holy  precincts  lie 
Ash'.'S  which  make  it  holier,  dust  which  is 
Even  in  itself  an  immortality, 
Though  there  were  nothing  save  the  past,  and  1hL«, 
The  particle  of  those  sublimities 
Which  have  relapsed  to  chaos  : — here  repose 
Ar.g(do's,  Alfieri's  bones,  and  his, 
The  starry  Galileo,  with  his  woes  ; 
Here  Machiavelli's  earth,  returned  to  whence  it  rose. 

LV. 

These  are  four  minds,  which,  like  the  elements, 

Might  furnish  I'orth  creation  : — Italy  ! 

Time,  which  haih  wronged  thee  with  ten  thousand  rents 

Of  thine  imperial  garment,  shall  deny. 

And  hath  denied,  to  every  olher  sk}', 

Spirits  which  soar  from  ruin :  —thy  decay 


/  PILGRIMAGE.  215 

Is  still  impregnatu  with  divinii y, 
\VI)ich  gilds  it  with  revivifying  ray  ; 

Such  us  the  great  ol  yoie,  Caiiova  is  tt>-d<i}-. 

LVI. 
But  where  repose  the  all  Etruscan  three- 
Dante,  and  Petrarch,  and,  scarce  less  than  they, 
The  Bard  of  Prose,  creative  spirit !   he 
Of  the  Hundred  Tales  of  love — where  did  they  lay 
Their  bones,  distinguished  from  our  con^mon  cluj- 
III  death  as  life  ?      Are  Ihej  resolved  to  dusl, 
And  have  their  country's  marbles  nought  to  s;ty  ? 
Could  not  her  quarries  furnish  forth  one  bust  ? 

Did  they  not  to  her  breast  their  filial  earth  entrust  ? 

LVII. 

Ungrateful  Florence  !   Dante  sleeps  afar. 
Like  Scipio,  buried  by  the  upbraiding  shore  ; 
Tliy  factions,  in  their  worse  than  civil  war, 
Proscribed  the  bard  whose  name  for  ever  more 
Their  clnldren'>  children  would  in  vain  adore 
AVith  the  remorse  ol  ages  ;  and  the  crown 
•  Which  Petrarch's  laureate  brow  supremely  wore, 
Upon  a  far  and  foreign  soil  had  grov.ii. 

His  file,  his  fame,  his  grave,  though  rifled— not  thine  own. 

LVIII. 
Boccaccio  to  his  parent  earth  bequealhed 
His  dust, — and  lies  it  not  her  Great  among, 
With  many  a  sweet  and  solemn  requiem  bieiilLed 
U'er  him  who  formed  the  Tuscan's  siren  tongue? 
That  music  in  itself,  whose  si.unds  are  song, 
1"he  poetr}  of  speech?     No  ; — even  iiis  tomb 
Upton),  nnist  bear  tlie  h3iL'iia  bigot's  wrong, 
No  more  amidst  tlie  meaner  deail  find  room, 

Nor  claim  a  passing  sigh,  because  it  told  lor  ivhuni  ? 

LIX. 

.\nd  Sunle  Croce  wants  their  mighty  dust  ; 
Vet  for  this  want  more  noted,  as  of  yore 
Ttie  Ca'sar'.-.  pageant,  sboin  ot   Brutus'  bust. 
Did  but  of  Home's  best  Son  remind  her  more  :  . 
Httppier  Kavenna  I   on  thy  hoary  shore, 
I'orlress  of  tailing  empire  !  honoured  sleeps 
Tne  immoiial  exile-; — Aiqua,  loo,  her  store 
(Jl  tuiieitd  u-lics  proudly  clain'is  iind  kei'ps. 
While  Florence  vainly  begs  iier  baiiisiied  diond  and  weeps. 

LX. 

What  is  a  pyramid  of  precious  stones? 
Of  porphyry,  jasper,  agate,  and  all  hues, 

Ol  gem  and  maibie,  to  encrust  the  1  tnej. 


•2\S  CHILD E   HAROLD'S 

Of  merchiint-tlukes  ?  the  momenlary  dews 
Which,  spiirkling  to  the  twilit^hi  stars,  infuse 
Freshness  in  the  green  turfs  that  wrap  the  deac!, 
Whose  names  are  mausok'ums  of  the  Muse, 
Are  s^ently  prest  with  far  more  reverent  tread 
Than  ever  placed  the  slab  which  paves  the  princely  bead. 

LXL 

There  he  no  more  thinc^s  to  greet  11>e  heart  and  ej-es 
In  Ariio's  dome  of  Art's  most  princely  shrine, 

AV'here  Sculpture  with  her  rainbow  sister  vies  ; 

There  be  no  more  marbles  yet— but  not  for  mine; 
For  I  have  been  accustomed  to  entwine 

My  thoughts  with  Nature  rather  in  the  fields, 

Tiiaii  Art  in  galleries  :  though  a  work  divine 

Calls  for  my  spirit's  homage,  yet  it  yields 
Less  than  it  feels,  because  the  weapon  which  it  wields 

LXIL 

Is  of  another  Jemper,  and  I  roam 
By  Thrasiniene's  lake,  in  the  defiles 
Fatal  to  Roman  rashness,  more  at  home ; 
For  there  the  Carthaginian's  warlike  wiles 
Come  back  before  me,  as  his  skill  beguiles 
The  host  between  the  mountains  and  the  shore. 
Where  Courage  falls  in  her  despairing  files, 
And  torrents,  swoln  to  rivers  with  their  gore, 
Reek  through  the  sultry  plain,  with  legions  scattered  o'er, 

Lxin. 

Like  to  a  forest  felled  by  mountain  winds  ; 
And  such  the  storm  of  battle  on  this  day, 
And  such  the  phrenzy,  whose  convulsion  blinds 
To  all  save  carnage,  that,  beneath  the  fray. 
An  earthquake  reeled  unheededly  away  ! 
None  felt  stern  Nature  rocking  at  his  feet. 
And  yawning  forth  a  grave  for  tliose  who  lay 
Upon  tlieir  bucklers  for  a  windiug  sheet; 
Such  is  the  absorbing  hate  when  warring  nations  meet ! 

LXIV. 

The  Earth  to  them  was  jis  a  rolling  bark 
^\'hich  bore  them  to  Eternity  ;  tliey  saw 
The  Ocean  round,  but  had  no  time  to  mark 
The  motions  of  their  vessel  ;  Nature's  law, 
In  them  suspended,  recked  not  of  the  awe 
Which  reigns  when  mountains  tremble,  and  the  birds 
Plunge  in  the  clouds  for  refuge  and  withdraw 
From  their  down-toppling  nests  ;   and  bellowing  herds 
Stumble  o'er  heaving  plains,  and  man's  dread  hath  no  words. 


/  PILGRLMAGE.  217 

LXV. 

Far  other  scene  is  Thrasimene  now  ; 
Her  lake  a  sheet  of  silver,  and  her  plain 
l!ent  b)-  no  ravage  save  the  gentle  plough  ; 
Her  aged  trees  rise  thick  as  once  the  slain 
Lay  where  their  roots  are  ;   but  a  brook  hath  ta'en — 
A  little  rill  of  scanty  stream  and  bed — 
A  name  of  blood  from  that  day's  sanguine  rain  ! 
And  Sanguinetto  tells  ye  where  the  d'jaci 
Made  the  earth  wet,  and  turned  the  uiuvilling  waters  red. 

LXVI. 

But  thou,  Clitumnus  !  in  thy  sweetest  \va,t. 
Of  the  most  living  crystal  tiiat  was  e'er 
The  hauut  of  river  nymph,  to  gaze  and  lave 
iler  limbs  where  notliiiig  hid  them,  thou  dost  rear 
'i'liy  grassy  banks  whereon  the  milk-white  steer 
Grazes  ;  the  purest  god  of  gentle  waters  ! 
And  most  serene  of  aspect,  and  most  clear; 
Surely  that  stream  was  nnprofaueil  by  slaugliters — 
A  mirrror  and  a  bath  for  Beauty's  youngest  daughters — 

LXVII. 

And  on  thy  happy  shore  a  temple  still. 
Of  small  and  delicate  proportion,  keeps, 
Upon  a  mild  declivity  of  hill. 
Its  memory  of  thee  ;  beneath  it  sweeps 
Thy  current's  calmness;  oft  from  out  it  leaps 
The  fumy  darter  with  thii glittering  scales, 
Who  dwells  and  revels  in  lii}  glassy  deeps  ; 
While,  chance,  some  scattered  water  lily  sails 
Down  where  the  shallower  wave  still  tells  its  bubbling  tales. 

Lxviir. 

Pass  not  unblest  the  Genius  of  the  place  ! 
If  through  the  air  a  zei)h3r  more  serene 
Win  to  the  brow,  'lis  his  ;  and  if  ye  trace 
Along  his  margin  a  more  eloepient  green, 
If  on  the  heart  the  Ireshness  oi'  the  scene 
Sprinkle  its  coolness,  and  Irom  the  dry  dust 
Of  weary  life  a  motnent  lave  it  clean 
With  Nature's  baptism, —  'lis  to  him  ye  mijst 
Puy  orisons  for  this  suspension  of  disgust. 

Lxrx. 

The  roar  of  waters  I  —  from  the  headlong  height 
Velino  cleaves  the  wave-worn  precipice; 
The  fall  of  waters  !   rapid  as  the  light 
Tlie  flashing  mass  foams  shaking  the  abyss  ; 
The  hell  of  waters  !  where  they  howl  and  hiss, 
And  boil  in  endles:?  torture  ;  while  the  sweat 

T 


i>18  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

()1  llieiv  great  agony,  wrung  out  from  this 
Their  I'hlegetlion,  curls  round  the  rocks  of  jet 
Tluit  gad  the  gulph  around,  in  pitiless  horror  set, 

LXX. 
And  mounts  in  spra3S  the  skies,  and  thence  again. 
Jxeturns  in  !in  uncreasing  shower,  which  round, 
With  its  uneniptied  cloud  of  gentle  ruin, 
Is  an  eternal  April  to  the  ground, 
]\Iaking  it  all  one  emerald ;  how  profound 
The  gulf!   and  how  the  giant  element 
From  rock  to  rock  leaps  with  delirious  bound. 
Crushing  the  cliti's,  which,  downward  worn  and  rent 

With  his  fierce  footsteps,  yield  in  chasms  a  fearful  vent 

LXXI. 
To  the  broad  column  which  rolls  on,  and  sliows 
More  like  the  fountain  of  an  infant  sea 
Torn  from  the  womb  of  mountains  by  the  throes 
Of  a  new  world,  than  only  thus  to  be 
Parent  of  rivers,  which  iiow  gushingly, 
AV'ith  many  windings,  through  the  vale  :— Look  back   ! 
Lo  !  where  it  comes  like  an  eternity, 
As  if  to  sweep  down  all  things  in  its  track, 

Charming  the  eye  with  dread — a  matchless  cataract, 

LXXII 
Horribly  beautiful  !  but  on  the  verge. 
From  side  to  side,  beneath  the  glittering  morn, 

,    An  Iris  sits,  amidst  the  infernal  surge, 
fiike  Hope  upon  a  death-bed,  and  unworn 
Its  steady  dyes,  while  all  around  is  torn 
By  the  distracted  waters,  bears  serene 
Its  brilliant  hues  with  all  their  beams  unshorn. 
Resembling,  'mid  th.e  torture  of  the  scene. 

Love  watching  Madness  with  unalterable  mien. 

LXXIII. 
Once  more  upon  the  woody  Appenine, 
The  infant  Alps,  which— had  1  not  before 
Gazed  on  their  mightier  parents,  where  the  pine 
Sits  on  more  shaggy  summits,  and  where  roar 
The  thundering  lauwine — might  be  worshipped  more  ; 
But  I  have  seen  the  soaring  Jungi'rau  rear 
Her  never  trodden  snow,  and  seen  the  hoar, 
(ilaciers  of  bleak  Mont-Blanc  both  far  and  near, 

And  in  Chimari  heard  the  (hunder-hills  of  fear, 

LXXIV. 

Th'  Acrocerannian  mountains  of  old  name  ; 

And  on  Parnassus  seen  the  eagles  fly 

Like  ispirits'of  the  spot,  as  'twere  for  fame, 


'  PILGRIMAGE.  219 

For  still  they  soared  umitteralily  higb  : 
I've  looked   on  Ida  with  a  Trojan's  eye  ; 
Athos,  Olympus,  ^Etna,   Atlas,  made 
These  hills  seem  thiiijjfs  of  lesser  dignity, 
All,  save  the  lone  Soracte's  height,  displayed 
Not  MOW  in  snow,  which  asks  the  lyric  llomiu's  aid 

LXXV. 

For  our  remembrance,  and  fVoni  ont  the  plain 
Heaves  like  a  long-swept  wave  about  to  break. 
And  on  the  curl  hangs  pausing  :  not  in  vain 
May  he,  who  will,  his  recollections  rake 

^\nd  quote  in  classic  raptures,  and  awake 

The  bills  with  Latian  echoes  ;  I  abhorred 
Too  much,  to  conqusr  i'ov  the  poet's  snke, 

The  drilled  dull  lesson,  forced  down  word  by  word 
In  my  repugnant  youth,  with  pleiisure  to  rfconl 

LXXVI. 

Aught  that  recals  the  daily  dni  r  wjij^li  Iwrncd 

My  sickening  niamory  ;  und,  liioiigh  (inie  iiaih  langht 

?il'y  mind  to  meuiiate  what  then  it  lejirned, 

Yet  sn<-li  the  fixed  inveteracy  wroni^hf 

By  the  impatience  of  my  early  tliougbt, 

That,'with  the  freshness  wearing  out  before 

My  mind  could  relish  what  it  might  have  sought, 

If  free  to  choose,  I  cannot  now  restore 
Its  health  ;  but  what  il  then  detested,  still  ablior. 

LXXVII. 

Then  farewell,  Horace  ;  whom  I  bated  so, 
Not  for  thy  faults,  but  mine ;  it  is  a  curse  . 
To  understand,  not  feel  thy  lyric  flow, 
To  comprehend,  but  never  love  thy  verse. 
Although  no  deeper  Moralist  rehearse 
Our  little  life,  nor  Bard  prescribe  thy  art, 
Nor  livelier  Satirist  the  conscience  pierce, 
Awakening  without  woumling  the  touched  hear!, 
Yet  fare  thee  well — upon  Soracte's  ridge  we  part. 

LXXVIII. 
Oh  Rome  !  my  country  !  city  of  the  soul ! 
The  orphans  of  the  heart  nnist  turn  to  lliee. 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires  !  and  control 
In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 
What  are  our  woes  and  sutlerance  !     Come  and  see 
The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  jdod  your  way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  Ye  .' 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day— 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 


220  CH(1>I)      ilAUOLDS 

i.XXiX. 
The  Niobe  cJ  nations  I   tliere  she  slaiitl---, 
Childless  and  crowiil^-ss,  in  her  voiceless  woe  ; 
An  einpl3-  uin  williin  hei-  witliei'il  lifinds, 
^Vliuse  iioly  dwst  was  scatteiTd  long  ago  ; 
The  Scipios'  lomh  conlains  no  ashes  now  ; 
'I'he  very  seiutlehres  lie  tenanlless 
Ol'  their  heioic  dwellers  :  dost  thou  flow, 
Old  Tiher  !   through  a  marble  v.  ildevness  ? 
llise,  with  th}-  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her  distress  ! 

LXXX. 

The  Goth,  the  Christian,  Time,   War,  Flood,  and  Fire, 
Have  dealt  ni)on  the  seven-hiU'd  city's  ir.ide  ; 
Slie  saw  her  glories  star  by  star  expire, 
And  up  the  steep  barbarian  monarchs  ride,  ^ 
Where  the  car  climbed  the  Capitol ;   I'ar  and  wide 
Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left  a  site  :  — 
Chaos  of  ruins  !  who  shall  trace  the  void. 
O'er  the  dim  fragments  cast  a  lunar  light. 
And  say,  "  here  was,  or  is,"  where  all  is  doubly  night  ? 

LXXXI. 

The  double  night  of  ages,  and  of  her. 
Night's  daughter,  Ignorance,  hath  wrapt  and  wrap 
All  round  us  ;  we  but  feel  our  way  to  err  : 
The  ocean  hath  his  chart,  the  stars  their  map. 
And  Knowledge  spreads  them  on  their  ample  lap  ; 
But  Home  is  as  the  desert,  where  we  steer 
Stumbling  o'er  recollections  ;  now  we  clap 
Our  hands,  and  cry  "Eureka!"   it  is  clear — 
When  but  some  false  mirage  of  ruin  rises  near. 

Lxxxir. 

Alas  !  the  lofty  city  !    and  alas  ! 
'I'he  trebly  hundred  triumphs !  and  the  day 
When  Brutus  made  the  dagger's  edge  surpass 
The  conqueror's  sword  in  bearing  fame  away  ! 
Alas,  for  Tally's  voice,  and  Virgil's  lay. 
And  Livy's  pictured  page  1 — but  these  shall  be 
Her  resurrection  ;  all  beside — decay. 
Ahis,  for  Earth,  for  never  shall  we  see 
That  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when  Rome  was  free  ? 

Lxxxin. 

Oh  thou,  whose  chariot  rolled  on  Fortune's  wheel, 
Triunipliant  Sylla  !   Thou,  who  didst  subdue 
Thy  country's  foes  ere  thou  would  pause  to  feel 
The  wrath  of  thine  ov.n  wrongs,  or  reap  the  due 
Of  hoarded  vengeance  till  thine  eagles  flew 
O'er  prostrate  Asia  ;  — thou,  who  with  thy  frown 


PILGRIMAGE.  221 

Annihilated  senates—  Roman,  too, 
Willi  till  thy  vices,   ibr  thou  didst  lay  do-.vii 
H'ith  an  atonin^f  smile  a  more  than  eavtlily  crown — 

LA'XXiy. 

The  dictatorial  wreath, — could  thou  divine 

To  \vhat  would  one  day  dwindle  that  which  made 

Tiiee  more  than  mortal?  an  1  that  so  ?upine 

'    By  aught  than  Romans  Rome  should  thus  be  laid  ? 
She  who  was  named  Eternal,  and  arrayed 
Her  warriors  but  to  conquer — she  who  veiled 
R.irth  with  her  haughty  shadow,  and  displayed 
Until  the  o'er-canopied  horizon  tailed, 

Her  rushing  wings — Oh  !  she  wlio  was  Almighty  hailed  ! 

Sylla  was  first  of  victors  ;  but  our  own 

The  sagest  ol'  usurpers,  Cromwell;  he 

Too  swept  oft'  senates  while  he  hewed  the  throne 

Down  to  a  block — immortal  Rebel !   See 

What  crimes  it  costs  to  be  a  moment  free 

And  famous  through  all  ages  !   but  beneath 

His  fate  the  moral  lurks  of  destiny  ; 

His  day  of  double  victory  and  death 
Beheld  him  win  two  realms,  and,  happier,  yield  his  breath. 

LXXXVI. 

The  third  of  the  same  moon  whose  former  course 
Had  all  but  crownetl  him,  o;;  the  selfsame  day 
Deposed  him  gently  from  his  throne  of  force. 
Anil  laid  him  with  the  earth's  preceding  clay.  ^ 

And  showed  not  Fortune  thus  how  fame  and  sway, 
And  all  we  deem  delightful,  and  consume 
Our  souls  to  compass  through  each  arduous  way. 
Are  in  her  eyes  less  happy  than  the  tomb  ? 
Were  they  but  so  in  man's,  how  diiferent  were  Ijis  doom  ! 

LXXXVH. 
And  ihou,  dread  statue  !  yet  existent  in 
The  austerest  form  of  naked  majesty. 
Thou  who  heheldest,  'mid  the  assassins'  din. 
At  thy  bathed  base  the  bloody  Cwsar  lie, 
i'olding  his  robe  in  dying  dignity. 
An  otlering  (o  thine  altar  from  the  queen 
Of  Gods  and  men,  great  Nemesis  !  aid  he  die, 
And  ihon,  too,  perish,  Pompey?  have  ye  been 
\Htors  of  countless  kings,  or  puppets  of  a  scene  ? 

Lxxxviir! 

And  thou,  the  thunder-stricken  nurse  of  Rome  ! 
She-woll  !  whose  brazen-imaged  dugs  impart 
The  milk  of  conquest  yet  within  the  dome 

T  2 


22i  CHLDE  MAIIOLD'S 

Where,  ns  :i  monument  of  antiqui'  art, 
Thou  standest : — Mother  of  the  nii'^lily  heart, 
Which  llie  p:re,.t  Inumler  sucked  from  th)-  wild  teat, 
Scorched  li}'  tiie  Roman  Jove's  eiherial  dart. 
And  thy  limbs  black  with  lightning— dost  thou  yet 
Guard  tliine  immortal  cubs,  nor  thy  fond  charge  forget? 

LXXXIX. 

Thou  dost  ; — but  all  t])y  foster-babes  are  dead — 
The  men  ol'  iron  ;  and  Die  world  hath  reared 
Cities  from  out  their  sepulchres  :  men  bled 
In  imitation  of  the  thing's  they  feared, 
And  loughl  and  con(|uered,  and  the  same  course  steered. 
At  apish  liistanj-e  ;  but  as  yet  none  have. 
Nor  could,  the  same  supremacy  have  neared. 
Save  one  vain  man,  vilio  is  not  in  the  grave. 
But,  vanquit-lied  by  himself,  to  his  own  slaves  a  slave — 

XC. 
The  fool  of  false  dominion— and  a  kind 
Of  bastard  Ciesar,  following  him  of  olil 
With  stejis  unequal;  for  the  Roman's  mind 
Was  motli'Ilcil  in  a  less  terrestrial  mould, 
W'ith  jiassions  fiercer,  3et  a  judgment  cold, 
And  an  immortal  instinct  which  redeemed 
The  frailties  of  a  heart  so  soft,  yet  bold, 
Alcides  \\itli  the  distal!'  now  beseemed 
Al  Cleopatra's  feet, — and  now  himself  he  beamed. 

XCI. 

And  crime — and  saw — and  conqiiered  !     Rut  the  man 
AVho  would  have  tamed  his  eagles  down  to  flee, 
Like  a  trained  falcon,  in  the  (iallic  van, 
AVhich  he,   in  sooth,  long  led  to  victory. 
With  a  deaf  heart  which  never  seemed  to  be 
A  listener  tg  itself,  was  stran.gely  framed  ; 
With  but  one  v\eakest  weakness — vanity, 
Cociuettish  in  aiiibilion--sti!l  he  aimed — 
At  what  ?  can  he  avouch — or  answer  what  he  alarmed  ? 

XCII. 

And  would  be  all  or  nolliing — nor  could  wait 
For  the  sure  grave  to  level  him  ;  few  years 
Had  fixed  him  with  the  Crt>sars  in  his  late. 
On  whom  v.e  tread  :    for  t/iix  the  conqueror  rears 
Tlie  arch  of  triumph  I  and  for  this  the  tears 
And  blooil  of  earth  flow  on  as  the}-  have  Mowed, 
An  universal  deluge,  whicii  apjjcars 
Without  an  ark  for  wretched  man's  abode, 
And  ebbs  but  to  reflow  !— Renew  thy  rainbow.  Cod! 


PILGRIMAGE.  223 

XCIII. 

What  from  this  b:irivn  beina;  do  we  reap  ? 
Our  senses  narrow,  and  our  reason  trail, 
Life  short,  and  truth  a  gem  which  loves  the  deep, 
And  all  things  weighed  in  custom's  ialsest  scale  ; 
Opinion  an  omnipotence,— whose  veil 
Mantles  the  earth  with  darkness,  until  right 
And  wrong  are  accitlents,  iind  men  grow  pale 
Lest  their  own  judgments  should  become  too  bright, 
And  their  free  thoughts  be  crimes,  and  earth  have  too  much  light. 

XCIV. 
And  thus  they  plod  in  sluggish  misery. 
Rotting  from  sire  to  son,  and  age  to  age, 
Proud  of  their  tramiiled  nature,  and  so  die, 
Bequeathing  their  hereditary  rage 
To  the  new  race  of  inborn  slaves,  who  wage 
War  for  their  ch-iins,  and  rather  tlian  be  free. 

Bleed  gladiator-like,  and  still  engage 

AVithin  the  same  arena  where  they  see 
Their  fellows  fall  before,  like  leaves  of  the  same  tree. 

XCV. 

I  speak  not  of  men's  creeds— they  rest  between 

Man  and  his  Maker— but  of  tilings  allowed, 

Averred,  and  known,— and  daily,  hourly  seen — 

The  yoke  that  is  upon  us  doubly  bowed 

And  the  intent  of  tyrainiy  avowed. 

The  edict  of  Earth's  rulers,  who  are  grown  , 

Tiie  apes  of  him  who  humbled  once  the  i)voud, 

And  siiook  them  from  tlieir  shnnl)ers  on  tlie  throne; 
Too  glorious,  were  this  all  his  mighty  arm  had  done. 

XCVI. 

Can  tyrants  but  by  tjrants  conquered  be, 
And  freedom  IiikI  no  champion  and  no  child 
Such  as  Columlna  saw  arise  when  she 
Sprung  lorth  a  I'allas,  armed  and  nndefiled  ? 
Or  nnisl  such  minds  be  nomi^hed  in  the  wild, 
Deep  in  the  unprimed  forest,  'midst  the  roar 
Of  cataracts,  where  nursing  Nature  smiled 
On  infant  Washington  ?     Mas  Earth  no  more 
Such  seeds  within  lier  breast,  or  Europe  no  such  shore? 

XCVH. 
Bat  France  got  drunk  witii  hlood  to  vomit  crime, 
And  fatal  have  her  Saturnalia  been 
To  Freedom's  cause,  in  every  age  and  clime  ; 
IJccause  the  deadly  days  which  we  have  seen. 
And  vi!e  ambition,  that  built  up  between 
Man  unJ  his  boiK's  an  adamantine  wall, 


224  '  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

And  the  base  pageant  last  upon  the  scene, 
Ave  grown  the  pretext  for  the  eternal  thrall 
Which  nips  life's  tree,  and  dooms  man's  worst — his  second  fall. 

XCVIII. 
Yet,  Freedom  !  yet  tby  banner,  torn,  but  flying, 
Streams  like  the"th\mder-storm.«g«/«s/  the  wind  ; 
Thy  trumpet  voice,  though  broken  now  and  dying, 
The  loudest  still  the  tempest  leaves  behind  ; 
Thy  tree  hath  lost  its  blossoms,  and  the  rind. 
Chopped  by  the  axe,  looks  rough  and  little  worth, 
But  the  sap  lasts, — and  still  the  seed  we  find 
Sown  deep,  even  in  the  bosom  of  the  North  ; 
So  shall  a  better  spring  less  bitter  fruit  bring  forth. 

XCIX. 
There  is  a  stern  round  tower  of  other  days, 
Firm  as  a  fortress,  with  its  fence  of  stone, 
.  '  Such  as  an  army's  baffled  strength  delays, 
Standing  with  half  its  battlements  alone, 
And  with  two  thousand  years  of  ivy  grown, 
The  garland  of  eternity,  where  wave 
The  c;reen  leaves  over  all  by  time  o'erthrow-n  ; — 
What  was  this  tower  of  strength  ?  within  its  cave 
What  treasure  laj'  so  locked,  so  hid?— A  woman's  grave. 

C. 
But  who  was  she,  the  lady  of  the  dead, 
Tombed  in  a  palace  ?     Was  she  chaste  and  fair? 
Worthy  a  kii\g's— or  more— a  Roman's  bed  ? 
What  race  of  chiefs  anil  heroes  did  slie  bear  ? 
What  daugliter  of  her  beauties  was  the  heir  ? 
How  lived — how  loved — liow  died  she  ?     Was  she  not 
So  honoured— and  conspicuously  there. 
Where  meaner  relics  must  not  dare  to  rot, 
Placed  to  commemora+e  a  more  tlian  mortal  lot? 

cr. 

Was  she  as  those  who  love  their  lords,  or  they 
Who  love  the  lords  of  others  ?  such  have  been. 
Even  in  the  olden  time  Rome's  annals  say. 
Was  she  a  matron  of  Cornelia's  mien. 
Or  the  light  air  of  Egypt's  graceful  queen, 
I'roluse  of  joy— or 'gainst  it  did  she  war, 
Inveterate  in  virtue  ?     Did  she  lean 
To  the  soft  side  of  the  heart,  or  wisely  bar 
Love  from  amongst  her  griefs  ?  for  such  the  affections  are. 

cir. 

Perchance  she  died  in  youth  :  it  may  be,  bowed 
With  woes  far  heavier  tlian  tii?  ponderous  tomb 
That  weighed  upon  her  gentle  dusi,  a  cloud 


Might  ijatlier  o'er  h.ir  heaiily,  and  a  ffloom 
111  her  dark  eye,  [irophetic  ol  the  doom 
Heaven  gives  its  tavoiirites — early  de-sth  ;  yet  shed 
A  sunsel  ciiarm  around  lier,  and, illume 
Witii  })ectic  light,  the  Hesperus  ol  the  dead, 
Of  lur  consuming  cheek  the  autumnal  leaf-like  red. 

CHI. 

Perchance  she  died  in  age — surviving  all, 
Cluirms,  kindred,  children  —with  the  silver  gray 
On  her  long  tresses,  which  may  yet  recal, 
It  may  brt,  still  a  something  of  thed-iy 
AVhen  they  were  braideil,  ami  her  proud  array 
And  lovely  form  were  envied,  inaised,  and  cyt^xX 

By  Rome But  whither  would  Conjecture  stray  ? 

Thus  much  alone  we  know — Metella  died, 
The  wealthiest  Roman's  wife  ;  Behold  his  love  or  pride  ! 

CIV. 

I  know  not  why — but  standing  thus  by  thee 
It  seems  as  if  I  had  thine  inmate  known, 
Tliou  tomb  !  and  other  days  come  back  on  me 
With  recollected  music,  though  the  tone 
Is  changed  and  solemn,  like  the  cloudy  groan 
Of  dying  thunder  on  the  distant  wind  ; 
Yet  could  I  seat  me  by  this  ivied  sione 
Till  I  had  bodied  fortli  the  heated  mind 
Forms  from  the  floating  wreck  which  ruin  leiives  behind  ; 

CV. 

And  from  the  planks,  far  shattered  o'er  the  rocks, 
Built  me  a  litlly  liark  of  hope,  once  more 
To  battle  with  the  ocean  and  the  shocks 
Of  the  loud  breakers,  and  the  ceaseless  roar 
AV^hicii  rushes  on  the  solitary  shore 
VV'here  all  lies  foundered  that  was  ever  dear  : 
But  could  I  gather  from  the  wave-worn  store 
Enough  for  my  rude  boat,  where  should  I  steer? 
There  woos  no  home,  nor  hope,  nor  life,  save  what  is  here. 

CVI. 
Then  let  the  winds  howl  on  !  their  harmony 
Shall  henceforth  be  my  music,  ami  the  night 
The  sound  shall  temper  with  the  owlet's  cry, 
As  I  now  hear  them,  in  the  fading  light 
])im  o'er  the  bird  of  darkness'  native  site, 
Answering  each  other  on  the  I'alatine, 
With  their  large  eyes,  all  glistening  gray  and  bright, 
And  sailing  pinions — Upon  such  a  shrine 
VVliat  are  our  petty  griefs?—  let  me  not  number  mine. 


226  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

CVII. 

Cypress  and  i^y,  weed  and  wallflower  grown 
Matted  and  massed  together,  hillocks  heiiped 
On  what  were  chambers,  arch  crushed,  column  strown 
In  i'ragments  choaked  up  vaults,  and  frescos  steeped 
In  subterranean  damps,  where  the  owl  peeped, 
Deeming  it  midnight : — Temples,  baths,  or  halls  ? 
Pronounce  who  can  ;  for  all  that  Learning  reaped 
From  her  research  hath  been,  that  these  are  walls — 
Behold  the  Imperial  Mount !   His  thus  the  mightj-  falls. 

CVIII. 

There  is  the  moral  of  all  human  tales ; 
'Tis  but  the  same  rehearsal  of  the  past, 
First  Freedom  and  (hen  Glorj- — when  that  fails, 
Wealth,  vice,  corruption — barbarism  athsf. 
And  History,  with  all  her  volumes  vast, 
Hath  but  one  page,  —'tis  better  written  here, 
Where  gorgeous  Tyranny  had  thus  amassed 
All  treasures,  all  delights,  that  eye  or  ear, 
Heart,  squl  could  seek,  tongue  ask — Away  with  words  !  dn 
near, 

CIX. 

Admire,  exult— despise — laugh,  weep, — for  here 
There  is  such  matter  for  all  feeling : — Man ! 
Thou  pendulum  betwixt  a  smile  and  tear, 
Ages  and  realms  are  crowded  in  this  span. 
This  mountain,  whose  obliterated  plan 
The  pyramid  of  empires  pinnacled. 
Of  Glory's  gewgaws  shining  in  the  van 
Till  the  sun's  ra3's  with  added  ilame  were  filled  ! 
Where  are  its  golden  roofs  ?  where  those  who  dared  to  build 

ex. 

Tully  was  not  so  eloquent  as  thou. 
Thou  nameless  column  with  the  buried  base '. 
What  are  the  laurels  of  the  Ctesar's  brow  ? 
Crown  me  with  ivy  from  Lis  dwelling-place. 
AV'hose  arch  or  pillar  meets  me  in  the  face, 
Titus  or  Trajan's  ?  No— 'tis  that  of  Time  : 
Triumph,  arch,  pillar,  all  he  doth  displace 
Scofling  ;  and  apostolic  statutes  climb 
To  crush  the  imperial  urn,  whose  ashes  slept  sublime, 

CXI. 

Buried  in  air,  the  deep  blue  sky  of  Rome, 

And  looking  to  the  stars  ;  they  had  contained 

A  spirit  which  with  these  would  find  a  home. 

The  last  of  those  who  o'er  the  whole  earth  reio^ned, 

The  Roman  globe,  for  after  none  sustained. 


PILGRIMAGE.  227 

But  yielded  back  his  conquest : — he  was  more 
Than  a  mere  Alexander,  and,  unstained, 
With  household  blood  and  wine,  serenely  wore 
His  sovereign  virtues — still  we  Trajan's  name  adore. 

CXII. 

Where  is  the  rock  of  Triumph,  the  high  place 
AVhere  Rome  embraced  her  heroes  ?  where  the  steep 
Tarpeian  ?  fittest  goal  of  Treason's  race, 
The  promontory  whence  the  Traitor's  Leap 
Cured  all  ambition.     Did  the  conquerors  heap 
Their  spoils  here  ?     Yes  ;  and  in  yon  field  below, 
A  thousand  years  of  silenced  factions  sleep — 
The  Forum,  where  the  immortal  accents  glow. 
And  still  the  eloquent  air  breathes — burns  with  Cicero  ! 

cxin. 

The  field  of  freedom,  faction,  fame,  and  blood  : 
Here  a  proud  people's  passions  were  exhaled, 
From  the  first  hour  of  empire  in  the  bud 
To  that  when  further  worlds  to  conquer  failed  ; 
But  long  before  had  Freedom's  face  Keen  veiled  ; 
And  Anarchy  assumed  her  attributes  ; 
Till  every  lawless  soldier  who  assailed 
Trod  on  the  trembling  senate's  slavish  mutes, 
Or  raised  the  venal  voice  of  baser  prostitutes. 

CXIV. 

Then  turn  we  to  her  latest  tribune's  name, 
From  her  ten  thousand  tyrants  turn  to  thee, 
Redeemer  of  dark  centuries  of  shame — 
The  friend  of  Petrarch— hope  of  Italy — 
Rienzi !  last  of  Romans !   While  the  tree 
<3f  Fieedom's  withered  trunk  puts  forth  a  leaf, 
Even  for  thy  tomb  a  garland  let  it  be — 
The  forum's  champion,  and  the  people  chief — 
Her  new-born  Numa  thou— with  reign,  alas!  too  brief.  , 

cxv. 

Egeria  !  sweet  creation  of  some  heart 
Which  found  no  mortal  resting-place  so  fair 
As  thine  ideal  breast ;  whate'er  thou  art 
Or  wert, — a  young  Aurora  of  the  air, 
The  nympholepsy  of  some  fond  despair ; 
Or,  it  might  be,  a  beauty  of  the  earth, 
Who  found  a  more  than  common  votary  there 
Too  much  adoring;  whatsoe'er  thy  birth. 
Thou  art  a  beautil'ul  thought,  and  softly  bodied  forth. 

CXVI. 
The  mosses  of  thy  fountain  still  are  sprinkled 
With  thine  Elysian  water-drops;  the  face 


223  CHILD Z  HAROLD'S 

Of  lliv  c.ive-giianied  spring,  with  years  unwriiikled. 
Reflects  the  meek-ejed  genius  ol'  llie  place, 
Whose  green  wild  margin,  now  no  more  erase 
Art's  works  ;  nor  niu>t  the  delicate  waters  sleep, 
Prisoned  in  marble,  bubbling  liom  tiie  base 
Of  the  clelt  statue,  with  a  geiitJe  leap 
The  rill  luiis  o'er,  and  round,  fern,  flowers,  and  ivy,  creep, 

cxvu. 

Fantastically  tai;:rled;   the  green  liilis 
Are  clotlied  with  early  blossoms,  through  ihe  grass 
The  ((iiick-eyed  lizard  rustles,  and  the  l^iils 
Of  sumrner-bivils  sing  vv'elcome  as  ye  pass  ; 
Flowers  fresh  in  hue,  and  many  in  tiieir  class, 
ImpJoie  tiie  pausing  step,  and  with  their  dyes 
Dance  in  the  soit  breeze  in  a  lairy  niiu^s;    * 
The  sweetness  of  llie  violets  deep  blue  eyes, 
Kissed  by  tha  breath  of  heaven,  seenss  coloured  by  its  skies. 

'  cxvni. 

Here  dids-t,  liioii  dw.di>   in  this  eacli-inted  cover 
Egeria  1   th}'  all  heavehly  iDosom  bi-.iling 
For  the  lar  iootsleps  ol    thy  mortal  lover; 
The  purple  Miunight  veiled  that  mystic  meeting 
With  her  most  starry  canopy,  and  seating 
Tbv>elf  by  tliine  adorer,  what  befel  ? 
This  Cf.ve  was  surely  shaped  out  for  the  greeting 
Of  an  enaniuureil  (ioddess,  and  the  cell 
Haunted  by  hclj  Love — the  eailiest  oracle  ! 

CXIX. 

And  didst  (hou  not,  thy  Itreast    to  his  replyifig, 
Blend  a  celestial  wilh  a  human  heart ; 
And  Love,  which  dies  as  it  w);s  bom,  in  sighing, 
Share  with  immortal  tian>porls  ':  could  thine  art 
Make  them  indeed  immortal,  and  impart 
The  purity  of  heaven  to  earthly  joys, 
Expel  the  venom  and  not  blunt  the  dart  — 
The  dull  satiety  which  all  destroys — 
And  root  Ironi  out  the  soul  the  deadly  weed  which  cloys  ? 

cxx. 

Alas  I  our  young  afiections  run  to  waste, 
(.)t  water  but  the  desert  ;  whence  arise 
But  weeds  of  dark  luxuriance,  tares  of  haste, 
Rank  at  the  cbie,  though  tenipling  to  the  eyes, 
Flowers  wiiose  wild  otiours  breathe  but  agonies, 
And  trees  whose  gums  are  poison  ;  such  the  plan's 
Which  spring  beneath  her  steps  as  Passion  flies 
O'er  the  world's  wilderness,  and  vainly  pants 
For  some  celostiul  .ruil  ioibidusii  to  our  wants. 


,  PILGRIMAGE.  229 

CXXI. 

Oh  Love  !  no  habitant  of  earth  thou  art — 
An  unseen  seraph,  we  believe  in  thee, 
A  faith  whose  martyrs  are  the  broken  heart, 
But  never  yet  hath  seen,  or  e'er  shall  see 
The  naked  eye,  thy  form,    as  it  should  be  ; 
The  mind  hath  made  thee,  ifs  it  peopled  heaven, 
Even  with  its  own  desiring  phantasy, 

And  to  a  thought  such  shape  and  image  given,  [rivea- 

As  haunts  the  unquenched  soul,  parched,  wearied,  wrung,  aud 

CXXII. 

Of  its  own  beauty  is  the  mind  diseased. 
And  fevers  into  false  creation  : — where, 
Where  are  the  forms  the  sculptor's  soul  hath  seized? 
In  him  alone.     Can  Nature  shew  so  fair  ? 
Where  are  the  charms  and  virtues  which  we  dare 
Conceive  in  boyhood  and  pursue  as  men, 
The  unreached  Paradise  of  our  despair, 
Which  o'er-informs  the  pencil  and  the  pen, 
And  overpowers  the  page  where  it  would  bloom  again  ? 

CXXIII. 

Who  loves,  raves— 'tis  youth's  frenzy— but  the  cure 
Is  bitterer  still  ;  as  charm  by  charm  unwinds 
Which  robed  our  idols ;  and  we  see  too  sure 
Nor  worth  nor  beauty  dwells  from  out  the  mind's 
Ideal  shape  of  such  ;  yet  still  it  binds 
The  fatal  spell,  and  still  it  draws  us  on. 
Reaping  the  whirlwind  from  the  oft-sown  winds  ; 
The  stubborn  heart,  its  alchemy  begun, 
Sefems  ever  near  the  prise— weallhiest^  when  most  undone.  - 

CXXIV. 
We  wither  from  our  youth,  we  gasp  away — 
Sick — sick  unfound  the  boon — unslaked  the  thirst, 
Though  to  the  last,  in  verge  of  our  decay — 
Some  phantom  lures,  such  as  we  sought  at  first — 
But  all  too  lale— so  are  we  doubly  curst. 
Love,  fame,  ambition,  avarice— 'lis  the  same. 
Each  idle— and  all  ill  -and  none  the  worst — 
For  all  are  meteors  Vvith  a  different  name. 
And  Death  the  sable  smoke  sphere  vanishes  the  flame. 

CXXV. 
Few— none— find  what  they  love,  or  could  have  loved, 
Thougii  accident,  blind  contact,  and  the  strong 
Necessity  of  loving,   have  removed 
Antipalliies  — but  to  recur,  erelong, 
Enveiiumed  with  iirecoverabie  wrong  ; 
And  Circumstance,  that  mi'^piritual  god 
^Viid  miscrcator,  makes  and  helps  along 

U 


230  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

Our  coming  evils  wilh  a  crutch-like  rod, 
Whose  toucli  turns  Hope  to  dust — the  dust  we  all  have  trod* 

cxxvi. 

Our  life  is  a  false  nature — 'tis  not  in 
The  harmony  of  things — this  hard  decree, 
This  uneradicable  taint  of  sin, 
This  boundless  upas,  this  all  blasting  tree, 
Whose  root  is  earth,  whose  leaves  and  brandies  be 
The  slvies  which  rain  their  plagues  on  men  like  dew — 
Disease,  death,  bondage— all  the  woes  we  see— 
And  worse,  the  woes  we  see  not — which  throb  tlirough 
The  immedicable  soul,  with  heart-aches  ever  new. 

cxxvir. 

Vet  let  us  ponder  boldly — 'tis  a  base 
Abandonment  of  reason  to  resign 
Our  right  of  thought — our  last  and  only  place 
Of  refuge  ;  this,  at  least  shall  still  be  mine  : 
Tiioiigh  from  our  birth  tlie  faculty  divine 
fs  chained  and  tortured — cabin'd,  cribb'd,  confined, 
And  bred  in  darkness,  lest  the  truth  should  shine 
Too  briglitly  on  the  unprepared  mind, 
he  beam  pours  in,  for  time  and  skill  will  couch  the  blind. 

CXXVIII. 

Arches  on  arches  !  as  it  were  that  Rome 
Collecting  the  chief  trophies  of  her  line, 
Would  build  up  all  her  triumphs  in  one  dome. 
Her  Coliseum  stands  ;  the  moonbeams  shine 
As  'twere  its  natural  torches,  for  divine 
Should  be  the  light  which  streams  here,  to  illume 
This  long-explored  but  still  exhaustless  mine 
Of  contemplation  ;  and  the  azure  gloom 
Of  an  Italian  night,  where  the  deep  skies  assume 

CXXIX. 
Hues  which  have  words,  and  speak  to  ye  of  heaven, 
Floats  o'er  this  vast  and  wondrous  monument, 
And  shadows  forih  its  glory.     There  is  given 
Into  the  things  of  earth,  which  time  hath  bent, 
A  spirit's  feeling,  and  where  he  hath  leant 
His  hand,  but  broke  his  scythe,  there  is  a  power 
And  magic  in  the  ruined  battlement, 
For  which  tlu'  palace  of  the  present  hour 
Must  yield  its  pomp,  and  wait  till  ages  are  its  dower.         ^ 

CXXX. 
Oh  time  I  the  beautifier  of  the  dead, 
Adorner  of  the  ruin,  comforter 
And  only  healer  when  the  heart  hath  bled — 
Time  !  the  corrector  where  our  judgments  err 


PILGRIMAGE.  '  231 

The  test  of  truth,  love,— sole  phifosopher, 
For  all  beside  are  sophists,  Ironi  thy  thrift, 
Which  never  loses  though  it  doth  defer — 
Time,  the  avenger  I   unto  thee  I  lift 
My  hands,  and  eyes,  aud  heart,  and  crave  of  thee  a  gift ; 

CXXXI. 
Amidst  this  wreck,  where  thou  hast  made  a  shrine 
And  temple  more  divinely  desolate. 
Among  thy  mightier  orterings  here  are  mine, 
Ruinsof  years— though  few,  yet  full  of  fate: 
If  thou  hast  ever  seen  me  too  elate, 
Ileur  me  not :  but  if  calmly  I  have  borne 
(Jood,  and  reserved  my  pride  against  the  liate 
Which  shall  not  whelm  me,  let  me  not  have  worn 
Tiiis  iron  in  my  soul  in  vain— shall  they  not  mourn  ? 

CXXXII. 
And  thou,  who  never  yet  of  human  wrong 
Lost  (he  unbalanced  scale,  great  Nemesis  ! 
Here,  Mhere  the  the  ancient  paid  thee  homage  long— 
Thou,  who  didst  call  the  Furies  from  the  abyss, 
And  round  Orestes  bade  them  howl  and  hiss 
For  that  unnatural  retribution — ^^just. 
Had  it  but  been  from  hands  less  near — in  this 
Thy  former  realm,  I  call  thee  from  the  dust ! 
Dost  thou  not  hear  my  heart  ?— Awake  !  thou  shalt,  find  must. 

CXXXIIL 
It  is  not  that  I  may  not  have  incurred 
For  my  ancestral  faults  or  mine  the  wound 
I  bleed  withal,  and,  had  it  been  conferred 
With  a  just  weapon,  it  had  flowed  unbound  ; 
But  now  my  blood  shall  not  sink  in  the  ground  ; 
To  thee  I  do  devote  it— t/ioic  shalt  take 
The  vengeance,  which  shall  yet  be  sought  and  found, 

Which  if  /  have  not  taken  for  the  sake 

But  let  that  pass— I  sleep,  but  thou  shalt  yet  awake. 

cxxxiv. 

And  if  my  voice  break  forth,  'tis  not  that  now 
I  shrink  Irom  what  is  sulfered  ;  let  hiin  speak 
Who  hath  beheld  decline  upon  my  brow, 
Or  seen  my  mind's  convulsion  leave  it  weak  ; 
But  in  this  page  a  record  will  I  feeek. 
Not  in  the  air  shall  these  my  words   disperse. 
Though  1  be  ashes  ;  a  far  hour  shall  wreak 
The  deep  i)rophetic  fulness  of  this  verse, 
And  pile  on  human  heads  the  mountiiin  of  my  curse; 


232  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

CXXXV. 

Tliat  curse  f^hall  be  Forgiveness. — Have  I  not — 
Hear  me,  my  mother  E;irth  !  behold  it,  Heaven  ! — 
Have  I  not  Lad  to  wrestle  with  my  lot  ? 
Have  I  not  siillered  Ihinjr^s  to  be  I'orp^iven  ? 
Have  I  not  had  my  brain  seared,  my  heart  riven, 
Hopes  sapped,  name  bliirhted,   Lite's  lite  lied  away  ? 
And  only  not  to  desperarion  driven, 
Because  not  aliogether  o!'  such  clay 

As  rots  into  the  souls  ot  those  whom. J  surv?y. 

CXXXVL 
From  mightv  wrongs  to  petty  perfidy 
Have  I  not  seen  what  human  things  could  do? 
From  the  loud  roar  ot  Ibaming  calumny 
To  the  small  whisper  oi'  the  as  paltry  few,  * 
And  subtler  venom  of  the  reptile  crew. 
The  Janus  glance  of  whose  significant  eye, 
Learning  to  lie  with  silence  would  seem  true. 
And  without  utterance,  save  the  shrug  or  sigh, 

Deal  round  to  happy  fools  its  speechless  obloquy. 

cxxxvn. 

But  I  have  lived,  and  have  not  lived  in  vain  ; 
My  mind  may  lose  its  force,  my  blood  its  fire  ; 
And  my  frame  perish  even  in  conquering  pain, 
But  there  is  that  within  me  which  shall  lire 
Torture  and  Time,  and  breathe  when  I  expire ; 
Something  unearthly,  which  they  deem  not  of, 
Like  the  remembered  tone  of  a  mute  lyre. 
Shall  on  their  softened  spirits  sink,  and  move 

In  hearts  all  rocky  now  the  late  remorse  of  love. 
CXXXVHI. 
The  seal  is  set — Now  welcome,  thou  dread  power ! 
Nameless,  yet  thus  omnipotent,  which  here 
Walk'st  in  the  shadow  of  the  midnight  hour 
With  a  deep  awe,  jet  all  distinct  from  fear ; 
Thy  haunts  are  ever  where  the  dead  walls  rear 
Their  ivy  mantles,  and  the  solemn  scene 
Derives  from  thee  a  sense  so  deep  and  clear 
That  we  become  a  part  of  what  has  been. 

And  grow  unto  the  spot,  all  seeing  but  unseen. 

CXXXIX. 
And  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran, 
In  murmured  pity,  or  loud-roared  applause. 
As  man  was  slaughtered  by  his  fellow  man. 
And  wherefore  slaughtered?  wherefore,  but  beoouse 
Such  were  the  bloody  Circus'  genial  laws, 
And  the  imperial  pleasure.     Wherefore  not  ? 


*  PILGRIMAGE.  23:5 

What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms— on  battle-plains  or  listed  spot? 
Both  are  but  theatres  where  the  chief  actors  rot. 

CXL. 
I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie : 
He  leans  upon  his  hand— his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agonj-, 
And  his  drooped  head  sinks  jifradually  low — 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower  ;  and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  iiiin — he  is  gone, 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which   hailed  the  wietcli  who 
won. 

CXLL 
He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not— his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away  ; 
He  recked  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay 
There  where  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother — he,  their  sire. 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday — 
All  this  rushed  with  his  blood— Shall  he  expire 
And  unavenged  ? — Arise  !  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire  I 

CXLH. 
But  here,  where  Murder  breathed  her  bloody  stream  ; 
And  here,  where  buzzing  nations  choaked  the  ways, 
And  roared  or  murmuied  like  a  mountain  stream 
Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays  ; 
Here,  where  the  Roman  million's  blame  or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd. 
My  voice  sounds  much— and  lall  the  stars'  faint  rays 
On  the  arena  void— seats  crushed— walls  bowed— 
And  galleries,  where  my  steps  seem  echoes  strangely  loud. 

CXLHI. 

A  ruin — yet  what  ruin  !   from  ils  mass 
Walls,  prtlaces,  liaU-cilies,  have  been  reared; 
Yet  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass 
And  marvel  where  the  spoil  could  have  appeared. 
Hath  it  indeed  been  plundered,  or  but  cleared  ? 
Alas  !  developed,  opens  the  decay. 
When  the  colossal  fabric's  form  is  neared: 
ll  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day, 
Which  streams  too  much  on  all  years,  maji,  have  reft  away. 

cxLl\^ 

Hut  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there  ; 
When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of  time, 

U  2 


>234  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

Ami  Ihc  Itiw  night-breeze  weaves  alonc^  the  air 
'I'he  garliuiil-rorest,   which  the  gray  walls  wear, 
Like  laurels  on  the  hald  first  Caesar's  head  ? 
V\'hen  the  liglit  shines  serene  but  cloth  not  glare, 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead  : 
Ileroes  have  trod  tliis  ^iiot  — 'tis  on  their  dust  ye  tread. 

CXLV. 

"  While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  stand  ; 
"  When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Jlome  shall  fall ; 
"  And  when  Rome  ialls— the  World."    From  our  own  land 
Thus  spake  the  pilgrims  o'er  this  mighty  wall 
In  Saxon  limes,  which  we  are  wont  to  call 
Ancient ;  and  these  three  mortal  things  are  still 
On  tiieir  ioundations,  and  unaltered  ;  11  ; 
Rome  and  her  Ruin  past  Redemption's  skiW, 
The  World,  the  same  wide  den— of  thieves,  or  what  ye  will. 

CXLVL 

Simple,  erect,  severe,  austere,  sublime — 
Shrine  of  all  saints  and  temple  of  all  gods, 
From  Jove  to  Jesus— spared  and  blest  by  time; 
Looking  tranquillity,  while  falls  or  nods 
Arch,  empire,  each  thing  round  thee,  and  man  plods 
His  way  through  thorns  to  ashes — glorious  doom  ! 
Shalt  thou  not  last  ?     Time's  scj  the  and  tyrant's  rods 
Shiver  upon  thee — sanctuary  and  home 
Of  art  and  piety — Pantheon  ! — pride  of  Rome  ! 

cxLvn, 

Relic  of  nobler  days,  and  noblest  arts  ! 
Despoiled  jet  perfect,  with  thy  circle  spreads 
A  holiness  appealing  to  all  hearts — 
To  art  a  model ;  and  lo  him  who  treads 
Rome  for  the  sake  of  ages.  Glory  sheds 
Her  liglit  tinou2,ii  tliy  sole  apertine  ;  to  those 
Who  worship,  here  are  altars  lor  llieir  beads  ; 
And  tliey  who  feel  for  genius  may  repose 
Their  eyes  on  honomed  iorms,  whose  busts  around  lh«m  close. 

CXLVIH. 

There  is  a  dungeon,  in  whose  dim  drear  light 
AVlial  ik)  1  g.ize  on  ?     Nothing:      Look  again! 
Two  forms  are  slowly  shadowed  on  my  sight — 
Two  insulated  phantoms  of  the  brain  :  ■ 

]t  is  not  so  ;   I  see  tlum  iull  and  plain — 
An  old  man,  and  a  female  joung  and  fair,  t 

Fresh  as  a  inirsing  niotlier,  in  wliose  vein 
The  blood  is  nectar  :— but  what  tioth  she  there, 
With  her  unmaniled  neck,  and  bosom  white  and  bare  ? 


'  PILGRIMAGE.  235 

CXLIX. 

Full  swells  the  deep  pure  fountain  of  young  life,    . 
Where  on  the  heart  and  from  tlie  heart  we  took 
Our  first  and  sweetest  nurture,  when  the  wife. 
Blest  into  mother,  in  the  innocent  look. 
Or  even  the  piping  cry  of  lips  that  brook 
No  pain  and  small  suspense  a  joy  perceives 
Man  knows  not,  when  from  out  its  cradled  nook 
She  sees  her  little  bud  put  forth  its  leaves— 
What  may  the  fruit  be  yet? — I  know  not — Cain  was  Eve's. 

CL. 

But  here  youth  offers  to  old  age  the  food, 
The  milk  of  his  own  gift :— it  is  her  sire 
To  whom  she  renders  back  the  debt  of  blood 
Born  with  her  birth.     No  ;  he  shall  not  expire 
While  in  those  warm  and  lovely  veins  the  fire 
Of  health  and  holy  feeling  can  provide 
Great  Nature's  Nile,  whose  deep  stream  rises  higher 
Than  Egypt's  river  : — from  that  gentle  side 
Drink,  drink  and  live,  old  man  !   Heaven's  realm  ^bolds  no 
such  tide. 

CLI. 

The  starry  fable  of  the  rnilky  way 

lias  not  thy  story's  purity  ;  it  is 

A  constellation  of  a  sweeter  ray. 

And  sacred  Nature  triumphs  more  in  this 

Reverse  of  her  decree,  than  in  the  abyss 

^Vhere  sparkle  ilistant  worlds  :  — Oh,  holiest  nurse  ! 

No  drop  of  that  clear  stream  its  way  shall  miss 

To  thy  sire's  heart,  replenishing  its  source 
With  life,  as  our  freed  souls  rejoin  the  universe. 

CLII. 

Turn  to  the  Mole  which  Hadrian  reared  on  high, 

Imperial  mimic  of  old  Egypt's  piles. 

Colossal  cop)isl  of  deibrmily, 

\Vliose  travelled  phantasy  from  the  f;ir  Nile's 

Enormous  model,  doomed  the  artist's  toils 

To  build  for  giants,  and  for  his  vain  earth 

His  shrunken  ashes  raise  this  doom  :   How  smiles' 

The  gazer's  eye  with  philosojihic  mirth. 
To  view  the  huge  design  which  spnmg  from  such  n  birth  ! 

CLII  I. 

But  lo !  the  dome— the  vast  and  wondrous  dome. 
To  which  Diana's  marvel  was  a  cell — 
'Christ's  migiily  shrine  above  his  martyr's  tomb ! 
I  have  beheld  the  Ephesian's  miracle — 
Its  columns  strew  the  wilderness,  and  dwell 
The  hy;ena  and  the  jatkall  in  llie  shade  } 


236  CHILDE   HAROLD'S 

1  have  beheld  Sophia's  bright  roofs  swell 
Their  glitterinpf  mass  i'  the  sun,  and  have  surveyed 
Its  sanctuary  the  while  the  usurping  Moslem  prayed  ; 

CLIV. 
But  thou,  of  temples  old,  or  altars  new, 
Standest  alone— with  nothing  like  to  thee— 
Worthiest  of  God,  the  holy  and  the  true. 
Since  Zion's  desolation,   when  that  He 
Forsook  his  lormer  city,  what  could  be, 
Of  earthly  structures,  in  his  honour  piled, 
Of  a  sublimer  aspect?     Majesty, 
Power,  Glory,  Strength,  and  Beauty,  all  are  aisled 
In  this  eternal  ark  of  worship  undefiled. 

CLV. 
Enter :  its  grandeur  overwhelms  thee  notj 
And  why  ?  it  is  not  lessened  ;  but  thy  mind, 
Expanded  by  the  genius  of  the  spot. 
Has  grown  colossal,  and  can  only  find 
A  fit  abode  wherein  appear  enshrined 
Thy  hopes  of  immortality  ;  and  thou 
Shalt  one  day,  if  found  worthy,  so  defied. 
See  thy  God  face  to  face,  as  thou  dost  now 
His  Holy  of  Holies,  nor  be  blasted  by  his  brow. 

CLVI. 
Thou  niovest— but  increasing  with  the  advance, 
Like  climbing  some  great  Alp  which  still  doth  rise, 
Deceived  by  his  gigantic  elegance  ; 
Vastness  which  grows — but  grows  to  harmonize — 
All  music  in  its  immensities  ; 

Rich  marbles — richer  painting  —shrines  where  flame 
The  lamps  of  gold — and  haughty  dome  which  vies 
In  air  with  Earth's  chief  structures,  though  their  frame 
Sits  on  the  firm  set  ground — and  this  the  clouds  must  claim. 

CLVH. 
Thou  seest  not  all;  but  piecemeal  thou  must  break, 
To  separate  contemplation,  the  great  whole  ; 
And  as  the  ocean  many  bays  will  make, 
That  ask  the  eye— so  iiere  condense  thy  soul 
To  more  immediate  objects,  and  control 
Thy  thouglits  until  thy  mind  hath  got  by  heart 
Its  eloquent  proportions,  and  unroll 
In  mighty  graduations,  part  by  part, 
The  glory  which  at  once  upon  thee  did  not  dart, 

CLVIII. 
Not  by  its  fault— but  thine  :  Our  outward  sense 
Is  but  of  gradual  grasp— and  as  it  is 
That  what  we  have  of  feeling  most  intense 


'  PILGRIMAGE.  .  237 

Outstrips  our  faint  expression  ;  even  so  this 
Outshining  and  o'erwhelming  edifice 
Fools  our  fond  gaze,  and  greatest  of  the  great 
Defies  at  first  our  Nature's  littleness, 
Till,  growing  with  its  growth,  we  thus  dilate 
Our  spirits  to  the  size  of  that  they  contemplate. 

CLIX. 

Then  pause,  and  be  enlightened  ;  there  is  more 
In  such  a  survey  than  the  sating  gaze 
Of  wonder  pleased,  or  awe  which  would  adore 
The  worship  of  the  place,  or  the  mere  praise 
Of  art  and  its  great  masters,  who  could  raise 
What  I'ormer  time,  nor  skill,  nor  thought  could  plan  ; 
The  fountain  of  sublimity  displays 
Its  depth,  and  thence  may  draw  the  mind  of  man 
Its  golden  sands,  and  learn  what  great  conceptions  can. 

CLX. 

Or,  turning  to  the  Vatican,  go  see 
Laocoon's  torture  dignifying  pain — 
A  father's  love  and  mortars  agony 
With  an  immortal's  patience  blending:— Vain 
The  struggle  ;  vain,  against  the  coiling  strain 
And  gripe,  and  deepening  of  the  dragon's  grasp, 
The  old  man's  clinch  ;  the  long  envenomed  chain 
Rivets  the  living  links, — the  enormous  asp 
Enforces  pang  on  pang,  and  stifles  gasp  on  gasp. 

CLXI. 

Or  vievp  the  Lord  of  the  unerring  bow, 
The  God  of  life,  and  poesy,  and  light — 
The  Sun  in  human  limbs  arrayed,  and  brow 
All  radiant  from  his  triumph  in  the  fight ; 
The  shaft  hath  just  been  shot — the  arrow  bright 
With  an  immortal's  vengeance ;  in  his  eye 
And  nostril  beautiful  disdain,  and  might, 
And  majesty,  flash  tiieir  full  ligiitnings  by, 
Developing  in  that  one  glance  the  Deity. 

CLXII. 

But  in  his  delicate  form— a  dream  of  Love, 
Shaped  by  some  solitary  nymph,  whose  breast  V  , 

Longed  lor  a  deathless  lover  from  above, 
And  maddened  in  that  vision — are  exprest 
All  that  ideal  beauty  ever  blessed 
The  mind  with  in  its  most  unearthly  mood, 
When  each  conce|)lion  was  a  heavenly  guest— 
A  ray  of  immortality — and  stood, 
Btarlike,  around,  until  tiii'y  gathered  to  a  goil !  ' 


238  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

CLXIIl. 

And  if  it  be  Prometheus  stole  from  Heaven 
Tile  fire  which  we  endure,  it  was  repaid 
By  bini  to  whom  the  energy  was  given 
Which  this  poetic  marble  hath  arrayed 
With  an  eternal  glory — which,  if  made 
By  human  hands,  is  not  of  human  thought ; 
And  Time  himself,  hath  hallowed  it,  nor  laid 
One  ringlet  in  the  dust — nor  halh  it  caught 
A  tinge  of  years,  but  breathes   the  flame  with  which    'twas 

CLXIV.  [wiougbt. 

But  where  is  he,  the  Pilgrim  of  my  song, 
The  being  who  upheld  it  through  the  past? 
Methlnks  he  cometh  late  and  tarries  long. 
He  is  no  more — these  breathings  are  his  last ; 
Hi,?  wanderings  done,  his  visions  ebbing  fast, 
And  he  himself  as  nothing  :— if  he  was 
Aught  but  a  phantasy,  and  could  be  classed 
With  forms  which  live  and  suffer — let  that  pass — 
His  shadow  fades  away  into  Destructiou's  mass, 

CLXV. 
Which  gathers  shadow,  substance,  life,  and  all 
That  we  inherit  in  its  mortal  shroud, 
And   spreads  the  dim  and  universal  pall 
Through  which  all  things  grow  phantoms ;  and  the  cloud 
Between  us  sinks  and  all  which  ever  glowed, 
Till  Glory's  self  is  twilight,  and  displays 
A  melancholy  halo  scarce  allowed 
To  hover  on  the  verge  of  darkness ;  rays 
Sadder  than  saddest  night,  for  they  distract  the  gaze, 

CLXVI. 

And  send  us  prying  into  the  abyss. 
To  gather  what  we  shall  be  when  the  frame 
Shall  be  resolved  to  something  less  than  this 
Its  wretched  essence  ;  and  to  dream  of  fame. 
And  wipe  the  dust  from  off'  the  idle  name 
We  never  more  shall  hear, — but  never  more, 
Oh,  happier  thought !  can  we  be  made  the  same  : 
It  is  enough  in  sooth  that  once  we  bore 
These  fardels  of  the  heart — the  heart  whose  sweat  was  gore. 

CLXVH. 
Hark  !  forth  from  the  abyss  voice  proceeds, 
A  long  low  distant  murmur  of  dread  sound. 
Such  as  arises  when  a  nation  bleeds 
With  some  deep  and  immedicable  wound  ; 
Through  storm  and  darkness  yawns  the  rending  grourvl. 
The  gulf  is  thick  with  phantoms,  but  the  chief 


PILGRIMAGE.  239 

Seems  royal  still,  though  with  her  head  discrowned, 
And  pale,  but  lovely,  with  maternal  grief 
She  clasps  a  babe,  to  whom  her  breast  yields  no  relief. 

CLXVIII. 

Scion  of  chiefs  and  monarchs,  where  art  thou  ? 
Fond  hope  of  many  natious,  art  thou  dead  ? 
Could  not  the  grave  forget  thee,  and  lay  low 
Some  less  majestic,  less  beloved  head  ? 
In  the  sad  midnight,  while  thy  heart  still  bled. 
The  mother  of  a  nioment,  o'er  thy  boy, 
Death  hushed  that  pang  for  ever  :  with  thee  fled 
The  present  happiness  and  promised  joy 
Which  filled  the  imperial  isles  so.  full  it  seemed  to  cloy. 

CLXIX. 

Peasants  bring  forth  in  safety. — Can  it  be. 
Oh  thou  that  wert  so  happy,  so  adored  ! 
Those  who  wept  not  for  kings  shall  weep  for  thee, 
And  freedom's  heart,  grown  heavy,  cease  to  hoard 
Her  many  griefs  for  One  ;  for  she  had  poured 
Her  orisons  for  thee,  and  o'er  thy  head 
Beheld  her  Isis. — Thou  too,  lonely  lord. 
And  desolate  consort — vainly  wert  thou  wed  ! 
The  husband  of  a  year  !  the  father  of  the  dead  ! 

CLXX. 

Of  sackcloth  was  thy  wedding  garment  made  ; 
Thy  bridal's  fruit  is  ashes  :  in  the  dust 
The  fair-haired  Daughter  of  the  Isles  is  laid, 
The  love  of  millions !     How  we  did  entrust 
Futurity  to  her  !  and,  though  it  must 
Darken  above  our  bones,  yet  fondly  deemed 
Our  children  should  obey  her  child,  and  blessed 
Her  and  her  hoped-for  seed,  whose  promise  seemed 
Like  stars  to  shepherds'  eyes:^'lwas  but  a  meteor  beamed. 

CLXXL 

Woe  unto  us,  not  her  ;  for  she  sleeps  well : 
The  fickle  reed  of  popular  breath,  the  tongue 
Of  hollow  counsel,  the  false  oracle, 
NVliich  from  the  l)irth  of  nionarciiy  hath  rung 
Itii  knell  in  princely  ears,  till  the  o'ersiung 
Nations  have  armed  in  madness,  Hie  strange  fate 
U'hich  tumbles  mightiest  sovereigns,  and  hath  flung 
Again.st  their  blind  omnipotence  a  weight 
VV'itbiu  the  opposing  scale,  wiiich  crushes  soon  or  late, — 

CLXXII. 

These  might  have  been  her  destiny  ;  but  no. 
Our  hearts  deny  it :  and  so  young,  so  fair, 
<;(iod  without  effort,  great  without  a  foe; 
15ul  now  a  bride  and  mother — and  now  there  I 


210  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

How  many  ties  did  that  stern  moment  tear  ! 
From  thy  Sire's  to  his  humblest  subject's  breast 
Is  linked  the  electric  chain  of  that  despair, 
Whose  shock  was  as  an  eartluiuake's,  and  opprest 
The  land  which  lovetl  thee  so  Ihat  none  could  love  thee  best. 

CLXxnr. 

IjO,  Nemi !  navelled  in  the  woody  hills 
So  far,  that  the  uprooling  wind  which  tears 
The  oak  from  its  foundation,  and  which  .-.pills 
The  ocean  o'er  its  l)oundary,  and  bears 
Its  foam  ac,ainst  the  skies,  reluctant  spares 
The  oval  mirror  of  thy  jrlassy  lake  ; 
And,  calm  as  cherished  iiate,  its  surface  wears 
A  deep  cold  settled  aspect  nought  can  shake. 
All  coiled  into  itself  and  round,  as  sleeps  th?  snake. 

CLXXIV. 

And  near  Albano's  scarce  divided  waves 
Shine  from  a  sister  valley  ; — and  afar 
The  Tiber  winds,  and  the  broad  ocean  laves 
The  Latian  coast  where  sprung  the  Epic  war, 
"Arms  and  the  Man,"  whose  re-ascendincf  star 
Rose  o'er  an  empire  ; — but  beneath  thy  right 
TuUy  reposed  from  Rome  ; — and  where  yon  bar 
Of  girdling  mountains  intercepts  the  sight 
The  Sabine  farm  was  tilled,  the  weary  bard's  delight. 

CLXXV. 
But  I  forget. — My  pilgrim's  shrine  is  won, 
And  he  and  T  must  part, — so  let  it  be, — 
His  task  and  mine  alike  are  nearly  done  ; 
Yet  once  more  let  us  look  upon  the  sea  ; 
The  midland  ocean  breaks  on  him  and  me. 
And  from  the  Allian  ?.loinit  we  now  behold 
Our  fijend  of  youth,  that  ocean,  which  when  we 
Beheld  it  last  by  Calpe's  rock  unfold 
Those  waves,  we  follow'd  on  till  the  dark  Euxine  roU'd. 

CLXXVl. 

I'pon  the  l)lue  Symplegades:  long  years — 
Long,  thoiigli  not  very  many,  since  have  done 
Their  work  on  both  ;  some  sufleri ng  and  some  tears 
Have  left  us  nearly  where  we  had  begun  : 
Y«t  not  in  in  vain  our  mortal  race  hath  ruji. 
We  have  had  our  reward — and  it  is  here; 
That  we  can  yet  feel  gladden 'd  by  tlie  sun, 
And  reap  from  earth,  sea,  joy  almost  as  dear 
As  if  there  were  no  man  to  trouble  what  is  clear. 

CLXXVfl. 

Oh'  llial  the  Desert  were  my  dwelling-place, 
With  one  fair  i^pirit  for  my  minister. 


PILGRIMAGE.  211 

That  I  mi<?ht  all  forget  the  human  race, 
And,  hating  no  one,  love  b\it  only  her  ! 
Ye  Elements  !— in  whose  ennobling  stir 
I  feel  myself  exalted — Can  ye  not 
Accord  me  such  a  being  ?     Do  I  err 
In  deeming  such  inhabit  many  a  spot  ? 
Tliough  with  them  to  converse  can  rarely  be  our  lot. 

CLXXviir. 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society,  where  none  iiitrudes. 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar  : 
I  love  not  Man  the  less,  but  Nature  more. 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
\V'iiat  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

CLXXIX. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean— roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain  ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  witli  ruin — his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore  ; — u|)(jn  the  waterj;  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deeil,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravag.i,  save  his  own, 
^V'hen,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
lie  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  uncoffin'd,  and  unknown. 

CLXXX. 
His  steps  are  not  upon  tliy  paliis, — thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him, — tliou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee  ;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise. 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  ski-s. 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  tiiy  playful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  Gods,  wiiere  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  spme  near  port  or  bay. 
And  dashesthim  again  to  earth  : — there  let  him  lay. 

CLXXXI. 

The  armaments  whicli  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  biduiiig  nations  (luake. 
And  monurchs. tremble  in  their  capitals. 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  aud  arbiter  of  war  ; 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,   as  the  snowy  flake, 


242  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Arniaaa's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trahilgar. 

CLXXXII. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  chiiriG;ed  in  all  save  thee — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carlhajje,  what  are  they  ? 
'I'iiy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free. 
And  many  a  tyrant  since  !  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savasre  ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts  :— not  so  thou, 
I'nrhangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play — 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  roUest  now. 

CLXXXIII. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests  ;  in  all  time, 
Calm  or  convulsed — in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving  ; — boundless,  endless,  and  sublime — 
The  image  of  Eternity — thc^  throne 
Of  the  Invisible  ;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made  ;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee ;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  iLJone. 

CLXXXIV. 
And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean  !  and  my  joy 
Oi  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward  :  from  a  boy 
I  wanton'd  in  th>  breakers — they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea. 
Made  them  a  terror — 'twas  a  pleasing  fear. 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mfuie — as  I  do  here. 

CLXXXV, 

My  tiisk  is  done— riiy  song  hath  ceased — my  theme 
Has  died  into  an  echo  ;  it  is  fit 
The  spell  should  break  of  this  protracted  dream. 
The  torch  shall  be  extinguished  which  ha'h  lit 
My  midnight  lamp — and  what  is  writ,  is  writ — 
Would  it  were  worthier  !   but  I  am  not  now 
That  which  I  have  been — and  my  visions  fiit     , 
Less  palpably  before  me — and  the  glow 
Which  in  my  spirit  dwelt,  is  fluttering,  faint,  an<l  low. 

CLXXXVL 

Farewell  !  a  word  that  must  be,  and  hath  been  — 
A  -ouiiil  wliicli  makes  us  linger  ; — yet  farewell  1 
^e  !  who  have  traced  the  Pilgrim  to  the  scene 
Which  is  his  last,  if  in  jour  memories  dwell 


'  PILGRIMAGE.  243 

A  thought  which  once  was  his,  if  on  ye  swell 
A  single  recollection,  not  in  vain 
He  wore  his  sandal  shoon,  and  scallop-shell ; 
Farewell !  with  him  alone  may  rest  the  pain. 
If  such  there  were —  with  you,  the  moral  of  his  strain  ! 


END  OF  CHILDE  HJ^ROLD'9  PILGRIMAGE. 


244  NOTES   TO    THE    FIHST    CANTO   OF 


fMtsi  to  cptJc  ^)arcltr» 


es» 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  I. 


(1) 

Yes  !  sighed  o'er  Delphi's  long  deserted  shrine, 

"Stanza  i.  line  6. 

The  little  villac^e  of  Castri  stands  partly  on  the  site  of  Del- 
l)hi.  Along  the  path  of  the  mountain,  from  Chrysso,  are  the 
remains  of  sepulchres  hewn  in  and  from  the  rock  ;  '  One,' 
said  the  guide,  '  of  a  king  who  broke  his  neck  hunting.'  His 
Majesty  had  certainly  claosen  the  fittest  spot  for  such  an 
achievement. 

A  little  above  Castri  is  a  cave,  supposed  the  P3-thian,  of  im- 
mense depth  ;  the  upper  part  of  it  is  paved,  and  now  a  cow- 
house. 

Oil  the  other  side  of  Castri  stands  a  Greek  monastery ;  some 
Y.'ay  abov;^  which  is  the  cleft  in  the  rock,  with  a  range  of 
caverns  difficult  of  iiscf-n',  and  apparently  leading  to  the  in- 
terior of  the  mountain  ;  jirobjibly  to  the  Corycian  Cavern  men- 
tioned by  Pausanias.  From  this  part  descend  the  fountain  and 
the  "  Dews  of  Castalie."' 

(2) 
Aiul  rest  ye  at  our  "  Lady's  house  of  woe." 

Stanza  xx.  line  4. 

The  Convent  of  "  Our  Lady  of  Punishment,"  Xossa  Senora 
de  Pena*,  on  the  summit  of  \\ui  rock.  Below,  at  some  dis- 
tance, is  the  Cork  Convent,  where  St.  Ilciiorius  dug  his  den, 
over  which  is  his  epitaph.  From  the  hills,  the  sea  adds  to  the 
beauty  of  the  view. 


•  Since  the  publication  of  this  Poem,  I  have  been  informed 
of  the  misapprehension  of  the  term  Xossa  Senora  de  Vena.  It 
Wiis  owing  to  the  want  of  the  tilde,  or  mark  over  the  n,  which 
alters  the  signification  of  the  word  ;  witli  it,  Pena  signifies  a 
rock  ;  without  it,  Pena  has  the  sense  I  adopted.  I  do  not  think 
it  neces.5ary  to  alter  the  i)assage,  as  tliough  the  common  accep- 
tation affixed  to  it  is  "  our  Lady  of  the  Rock,"  I  may  well 
assume  the  other  sense  from  the  severities  practised  there. 


CHlliDE    HAROLD'S   PILORIMAOC,  24,» 

Throughmit  this  purple  land,  viliere  Iwo  secures  not  l/j''. 

Stanza  xxi,  line  last. 

It  is  a  well-known  fact,  that  in  the  year  1809,  the  assassi- 
nations in  the  streets  of  Lisbon  and  its  vicinity  were  not  coii- 
fliied  by  the  Portuguese  to  theircouutrymen,  but  that  Englishmen 
were  daily  butchered  ;  and  so  far  from  redress  being  obtained, 
we  were  requested  not  to  interfere  if  we  perceived  any  com- 
patriot defending  himself  against  his  allies.  1  was  once  stO|)- 
ped  in  the  way  to  the  theatre  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
when  the  streets  were  not  more  empty  than  they  generally  arn 
at  that  hour,  opposite  to  an  open  shop,  and  in  a  carriage  with 
a  friend  ;  had  we  not  fortunal+^ty  been  armed,  I  have  not  the 
least  doubt  that  we  should  have  adorned  a  tale  instead  of  telling 
one.  The  criiiie  of  assassination  is  not  confined  to  Portuo^al  : 
in  Sicily'  and  Malta  we  are  knocked  on  the  head  at  a  handsome 
average  nightly,  and  not  a  Sicilian  or  Maltese  is  ever  pu- 
nished ! 

(4) 

Behold  the  hall  where  chiefs  were  Me  convened. 

Stanza  xxiv.  line  1. 

The  convention  of  Cintra  was  signed  in  the  palace  of  \h". 
Marchese  Marialva.  The  late  exploits  of  Lord  \Vellingt*?i 
have  ettaoe<^l  the  follies  of  Cintra.  He  has,  indeed,  done  won- 
ders ;  he  has,  perhaps,  changed  the  character  of  a  nation,  re- 
conciled rival  superstitions,  and  baffleti  an  enemy  who  never 
retreated  before  his  predecessors. 

(5) 

Yet  Mafra  shall  one  moment  claim  delay' 

Stanza  xxix.  line  1. 

The  extent  of  Mafra  is  prodigious ;  it  contains  a  palace, 
convent,  and  most  superb  church.  The  six  organs  are  the 
most  beautiful  I  ever  beheld  in  point  of  decoration  :  we  did 
not  hear  them,  but  were  told  that  thtir  tones  were  correspondent 
to  their  splendor.     Mafra  is  termed  the  Escurial  of  Portugal. 

(6) 

IVell  doth  the  Spanish  hind  the  difference  know 
'  Tim.it  him  and  Lnsian  slave,  the  lowest  of  the  low. 
Stanza  xxxiii.  lines  8  and  9. 

As  I  have  found  the  Portuguese  so  have   I   characterised 

them.     That  they  are  since  improved,  at  least  in  courage,  is 

evident. 

X  2 


246  XOTES    TO    THE    FIRST    CANTO    OF 

JVhen   Cava's  traitm-sire first  called  the  band 
That  dyed  thfj    mountaitt.  streams  with  Gothic  gore. 

Stanza  xxxv.  lines  3  and  4. 
Count  Julian's  dnucchter,    the  Helen  of  Spain.      Pelagius  ' 
preserved  bis  intiejiendence   In  the  fastnesses  of  the   Asturias, 
and  the  ileScendunts  of   his   followers,    after  some  centuries, 
completed  their  strug^gle  by  the  conquest  of  Grenada. 

(S) 
No  !  as  he  speeds,  he  chaunts,  "  Viva  el  Rey  !" 

Stanza  xlviii.  line  5- 

"  \''iva  el  Rey  Fernando  !" — Long  live  King  Ferdinand  !  is 
the  chorus  of  most  of  the  Spanish  patriotic  songs  ;  they  are 
chiefly  in  dispraise  of  the  old  king  Charles,^  the  Queen,  and 
the  Prince  of  Peace.  I  have  heard  man}-  of  them  ;  some  of 
the  airs  are  beautiful.  Godoy,  the  Principe  de  la  Paz,  was 
born  at  Badajoz,  on  the  frontiers  of  Portugal,  and  was  ori- 
ginally in  the  ranks  of  the  Spanish  Guards,  till  his  person 
attracted  the  queen's  eyes,  and  raised  him  to  the  dukedom 
of  Alcudia,  <fec.  (fee.  It  is  to  this  man  that  the  Spaniards 
universally  impute  the  ruin  of  their  country. 

(9; 

Bears  in  his  cap  the  badge  of  crimson  hue, 
(Vliich  tells  you  whom  to  shun  and  irhmn  to  greet. 

Stanza  1.  lines  2  and  3. 
The  red  cockade  with  "  Fernando  Septimo''   in  the  centre. 

(10) 

The  ball-piled  pyramid,  the  ever-blazing  match. 

Stanza  li.  line  last. 
All  who  have  seen  a  b;ittery  will  recollect  the  pjTamidal 
form  in  which  shot  and  shells  are  piled.      The  Sierra  Morena 
was  fortified  in  every  defile  through  which  I  passed  in  my  way 
to  Seville. 

(11) 
Foiled  by  a  woman's  luind,  before  a  battered  tvall. 

Stanza  Ivi.  line  last. 

Such  were  the  exploits  of  the  maid  of  Saragossa.  When 
the  author  was  at  Seville  she  walked  daily  on  the  Prado, 
decorated  with  medals  and  orders,  by  command   of  the  Junta. 

(12) 
The  seal  Love's  dimplingfinger  hath  irnpressed 
Denotes  how  soft  that  chin  ivhich  bears  his  touch. 

Stanza  Iviii.  lines  1  and  2. 

Sigilla  in  mento  impressa  Amoris  digitulo 

Vestigio  demonstrant  mollitudinem.  Ail.  Gel. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE.  247 

(13) 

Oh,  thou  Parnassus  ! 

Stanza  Ix.  line  1. 
The>e  stanzas  were  written  in  Castri  (Delphos,)    at  the  loot 
of  Parnassus,  now  called  Liakura. 

(14) 

Fair  is  ■proud  Seville  ;  let  her  country  hoast 

Her  strength,  her  wealth,  her  site  of  ancient  days. 

Stanza  Ixv.  lines  1  and  2. 
Seville  was  the  Hispalis  of  the  Romans. 

(15) 

Ask  ye,  Bwotian  shades  !  the  reason  why  9 

Stanza  Ixx.  line  5. 

This  was  written  at  Thebes,  and  consequently  in  the  best 
situation  for  asking  and  answering  such  a  question  ;  not  as  the 
birth-place  of  Pindar,  but  as  the  capital  of  Boeotia,  where  the 
first  riddle  was  propounded  and  solved. 

(16) 

Some  hitter  o'er  the  flowers  its  bubbling  venom  flings. 

Stanza  Ixxxii.  line  last. 

"  Medio  de  fonte  leporum 
"  Surgit  amari  aliquid  quod  in  ipsis  floribus  angat."     Luc. 

(17) 

A  traitor  only  fell  beneath  the  feud. 

Stanza  Ixxxv.  line  7. 

Alluding  to  the  conduct  and  death  of  Solano,  the  Governor 
of  Cadiz. 

(18) 

fVar  even  to  the  knife. 

Stanza  Ixxxvi.  line  last. 

"  War  to  the  knife."  Palafox's  answer  to  the  French  (ie- 
neral  at  the  siege  of  Saragoza. 

(19) 

And  thou  my  friend,  Sfc. 

Stanza  xci.  line  I. 

The  Honourable  I*.  W**.  of  Ibe  Guards,  who  died  of  a 
fever  at  Coimbra.  I  had  known  him  ten  years,  the  better  half 
of  his  life,  and  the  iiappiest  part  of  mine. 

In  the  thort  space  of  one  month  I  have  lost  her  who  gave 
me  being,  and  most  of  those  who  made  that  being  tolerable. 
To  me  the  lines  of  Young  are  no  fiction  : 


248  NOTE!?    TO    THE   FIRST   CANTO,    ETC. 

"  Insatiate  archer!  could  not  one  suffice? 

Thy  shaft  flew  thrice,  and  thrice  my  peace  was  slain, 

And  thrice  ere  thrice  3on  moon  had  filled  her  horn." 

I  should  have  ventured  a  verse  to  the  memory  of  the  late 
Charles  Skinner  Matthews,  Fellow  of  Downing  College, 
Cambridge,  were  he  not  too  much  above  all  praise  of  mine. 
His  powers  of  mind,  shown  in  the  attainment  of  greater 
honours,  against  the  ablest  candidates,  than  those  of  any  gra- 
duate on  record  at  Cambridge,  have  sufficiently  established  his 
fame  on  the  spot  where  is  was  acquired,  while  his  softer  quali- 
ties live  in  the  recollection  of  friends  whd  loved  him  too  well 
to  envy  his  superiority. 


NOTES    TO   THE   SECOND    CANTO,    ETC.  249 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  II. 


»>*««44«— 


(1.) 

despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire — 

Stanza  i.  line  4. 

Part  of  the  Acropolis  was  destroyed  by  the  explosion  of  a 
magazine  during  the  Venetian  siege. 

(2.) 

But  worse  than  steel  and  flame,  and  ages  slow. 
Is  the  dread  sceptre  and  dominion  dire 
Of  men  who  never  felt  the  sacred  glow 
That  thoughts  of  thee  and  thine  on  polished  breasts  bestow. 

Stanza  i.line  6. 

We  can  all  feel,  or  imagine,  the  regret  with  which  thg  ruins 
of  cities,  onc3  the  capitals  of  empires,  are  beheld }  the  reflec- 
tions suggesfeij  by  such  obiect=;  arj  to >  tritu  to  ri»'iiiiro  recapi- 
tulation. But  never  did  the  littleness  of  man,  and  the  vanity 
of  his  very  best  virtues,  oC  pairiolisui  to  exalt,  and  of  valour 
to  defend  his  country,  appear  more  conspicuous  tlian  in  the 
record  of  what  Athens  was,  and  the  certainty  of  what  she  now 
is.  This  theatre  of  contention  between  mighty  factions,  of  the 
struggles  of  orators,  the  exaltation  and  deposition  of  tyrants, 
the  triumph  and  punishment  of  generals,  is  now  become  a  scene 
of  petty  intrigue  and  perpetual  disturliance,  between  the  bick- 
ering agents  nf  certain  JJiitisli  nobilily  and  gentry.  "  The 
wild  foxes,  the  owls,  and  sei-p.nits  in  the  ruins  of  Bal)ylon," 
were  surel}'  less  degrading  than  such  inhabitants.  The  Turlvs 
have  the  plea  of  comiuest  for  their  tyranny,  and  the  Greeks 
have  only  sull'ered  the  fortune  of  war,  incidental  to  the  bravest ; 
but  how  are  the  mi:(Uty  fallen,  when  two  painters  contest  the 
privilege  of  plundering  the  Farthenun,  and  triumph  in  turn,  ac- 
cording to  the  tenor  of  each  succeeding  firman  !  Sylla  could 
but  punisli,  I'hilip  s\d5due,  and  Xerxes  burn  Atiiens  ;  but  it 
remained  lor  the  paltry  Antiquarian,  ami  his  despicable  agents, 
to  render  her  contemjjtible  as  himself  and  Ids  [lursuits. 

The  Partlienon,  before  its  destruction  in  part,  by  fire  during 
theVenetian  siege,  bad  been  a  temple,  a  church,  and  a  mosque. 


250  NOTES   TO   THE   SECOND   CANTO   OF 

In  ench  jioint  of  view  it  is  an  object  of  regard ;  it  changed 
its  worshippers :  but  still  it  was  a  place  of  worshipthrice  sa- 
cred to  devotion  :   its  violation  is  a  triple  sacrilege.    But 

"  Man,  vain  man, 
Drest  in  a  little  brief  authority, 
Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  heaven 
As  make  the  angels  weep." 

(3.) 

Far  on  the  solitary  shore  he  sleeps. 

Stanza  v.  line  2. 

It  was  not  always  the  custom  of  the  Greeks  to  burn  their 
dead  :  the  jjreater  Ajax  in  particular  was  interred  entire. — 
Almost  all  the  chiefs  became  gods  after  their  decease,  and  he 
was  indeed  neglected,  who  had  not  annual  cfamesnear  his  tomb, 
or  festivals  in  honour  of  his  memory  by  his  countrymen,  aa 
Achilles,  Brasidas,  &c.  and  at  last  even  Antinous,  whose 
death  was  as  heroic  as  his  life  was  infamous. 

(i-) 
Here,  son  of  Saturn  I  was  thy  favorite  throne  > 

Stanza  x.  line  3. 

The  temple  of  Jupiter  Olympies,  of  which  sixteen  columns 
entirely  of  marble  yet  survive ;  originally  there  were  150.  These 
columns,  however,  are  by  many  supposed  to  have  belonged  to 
the  Pantheon. 

(5.) 

And  hear  these  altars  o'er  the  long-reluctant  brine. 

Stanza  xi  line  last. 

The  ship  was  wrecked  in  the  Archipelago. 

(6.) 

To  rive  what  Goth,  and  Turk,  ami  Time,  hath  spared. 

Stanza  xii.  line  2. 

At  this  moment  (Januarys,  1S09),  besides  what  has  been 
;ilready  deposited  in  London,  an  Hydriot  vessel  is  in  the  Pinpus 
to  receive  every  portable  relic.  Thus  as  I  heard  a  young  Greek 
observe  in  common  with  many  of  his  countrymen — for,  lost 
as  they  are,  they  yet  feel  on  this  occasion— thus  may  Lord 
Elgin  boast  of  having  ruined  Athens.  An  Italian  painter  of 
the  first  eminence,  named  Lusieri,  is  the  agent  of  devastation  ; 
and  like  the  Greek /w/er  of  Terres  in  Sicily,  who  followed  the 
same  profession,  he  has  proved  the  able  instrument  of  plunder. 
Between  this  artist  and  the  French  Consul  Fauvel,_who  wishes 
to  rescue  the  remains  for  his  own  government,  there  is  now  a 
violent  dispute  concerning  a  car  employed  in  their  conveyance, 
the  wheel  of  which— I  wish  they  were  both  broke  upon  it— has 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE.  251 

been  locked  up  by  the  Consul,  and  Lusieri  has  laid  his  complaint 
before  the  Waywode.     Lord  Elsiu  has  been  extremely  happy 
in  his  choice  of  Signor  Lusieri.     During  a  residence  of  ten 
years  in  Athens,  he  never  had  the  curiosity  to  proceed  as  far 
as  Sunium*,  till  he  accompanied  us  in  our  second  excursion. 
However,  his  works,  as  far  as  they  go,  are  most  beautiful  ; 
but  they  are  almost  all  unfinished.     While  he  and  his  patrons 
confine    themselves  to  tasting  medals,    appreciating   cameos, 
sketohing  columns,  and  cheapening  gems,  their  little  absur- 
dities are  as  harmless  as  insect  or  fox-hunting,  maiden-speech- 
ifying, barouch-drivlng,  or  any  such  pastime  ;  but  when  they 
carry  away  three  or  four  shiploads  of  the  most  valuable  and 
massy  relics  that  time  and  barbarism  have  left  to  the  most  in- 
jured and  most  celebrated  of  cities  ;  when  they  destroy,  in  a 
vain  attempt  to  tear  down  those  works  which  have  been  the 


»  Now  Cape  Colonna.  In  all  Attica,  if  we  except  Athens 
itself  and  Marathon,  there  is  no  scene  more  interesting  than 
Cipe  Colonna.  To  the  anti(iuary  and  artist,  sixteen  columns 
are  an  inexhaustible  source  of  observation  and  design  ;  to_>the 
jihiloioplier,  the  supposed  scene  of  some  of  Plato's  conversa- 
1  ions  will  not  be  unwelcome  ;  and  the  traveller  will  be  struck 
with  the  beauty  of  the  prospect  over  "  Is/es  that  crown  the 
Sgcun  deep :"  but  for  an  Englishman,  Colonna  has  yet  an 
additional  interest,  as  the  actual  spot  of  Falconer's  Shipwreck. 
Pallas  and  Plato  are  forgotten  in  the  recollection  of  Falconer 
and  Campbell: 

"  Here  in  the  dead  of  night  by  Lonna's  steep, 
The  seamen's  cry  was  heard  along  the  deep." 
This  temple  of  Minerva  may  be  seen  at  sea  irom  a  great  dis- 
tance.    In  two  journejs  which  T  made,  and  one  voyage  to  Cepe 
Colonna,  tlie  view  from  either  side,  by  land,  was  less  striking 
ttian  the  approach  I'rom  the  isles.  In  our  second  land  excursion, 
we  had  a  narrow  escape  from  a  party  of  Mainnotes,  concealed 
in  the  caverns  beneath.     We  were  told  afterwards,  by  one  of 
their  prisoners  subsequently  ransomed,  that  they  were  deterred 
trom  attacking  us  by  the  appearance  of  my  two  Albanians: 
•  oniecliiring  very  sagaciously,  but  lalsely,  that  we  had  a  com- 
plete guard'of  these" Arnaoiits  at  hand,  they  remaini'd  statio- 
nary, "and  thus  saved    our  party,  which  was  too  small  to  have 
opjiosed  any  ellectual  resistance. 

Colonna  is  no  less  a  resort  of  painters  than  of  pirates ;  there 
"  The  hireling  artist  plants  las  paltry  desk, 
And  makes  degraded  Nature  picturesque." 

(S(;e  Hodgson's  Lady  Jane  Grey,  *c.) 
But  here  Nature,  willi  tiie  aid  of  Art,  has  done  thr.t  for  her- 
self.   I  was  lortunate  enough  to  engage  a  very  superior  (ierman 
artist ;  and  hope  to  renew  my  aciinaintance  with  iliis  and  many 
other  Levantine  scenes,  by  the  arrival  of  bis  performances. 


252  NOTES  TO  THE  SECOND  CANTO  OF 

ailmiiation  of  ages,  I  know  no  motive  which  can  excuse,  no 
name  which  can  designate,  the  perpetrators  of  this  clastardly 
devastation.  It  was  not  the  least  of  the  crimes  laid  to  the 
charge  of  V'erres,  that  he  had  plundered  Sicily,  in  the  manner 
since  imitated  at  Athens. —  The  most  unl)lushing  impudence 
could  hard]}-  gr)  farther  Hum  to  aflix  the  nsmie  of  its  plunderer 
Id  the  walls  of  the  Acropolis  :  while  the  wanton  and  useless 
defacement  iif  the  whole  range  of  ihe  basso-relievos,  in  one 
compartment  of  the  temple,  will  never  permit  that  name  to 
be  pronounced  by  an  observer  without  execration- 

On  this  occasion  I  speak  impartially;  lam  not  a  collector 
or  admirer  of  collections,  consequently  no  rival ;  but  I  have 
some  early  prepossessions,  in  favour  of  Greece,  and  do  not 
think  the  honour  of  England  advanced  by  pluniler,  whether  of 
India  or  Attica. 

iVnother  iiolile  Lord  had  done  better,  because  he  has  done 
less  :  but  some  others,  more  or  less  noble,  yet  "  all  honourable 
men,"  have  done  /,et:f,  because,    alter  a  deal  of  excavation 
and  execration,  bribery  lo  the  Waywode,  mining  and  coun- 
termining, they  have  done  nothing  at  all.     We  had  such  ink- 
shed,  and  wine-shed,  which  almost  ended  in  bloodshed  !     Lord 
E.'s  "prig," — see  Jonathan  Wylde  for  the  defination  of  "prig- 
gism," — quarrelled  with  another,   (irojjiits*  by  name  (a  very 
good  name  too  for  his  business)  ami  muttered  something  about 
satisfaction,  in  a  verbal  answer  to  a  note  of  the  poor  Prussian  ; 
this  was  stated   at  table  to  Gropius,  who  laughed,  but  could 
eat  no  dinner  afterwards.  The  rivals  were  not  reconciled  when 
I  left  Greece.     I  have  reason  to  remember  their  squabble,  for 
they  wanted  to  make  me  their  arbitrator. 


*  This  Sr.  Gro;)ius  was  employed  by  a  noble  Lord  for  the 
vole  purpose  of  sketching,  in  which  he  excels;  but  [  am  sorry 
to  say,  that  he  has,  throvigh  the  abused  sanction  of  that  most 
respectable  name,  been  tieading  at  humble  distance  in  the 
s1ep^  of  Sr.  Lusicii.     A  shipful  of  his  trophies  was  detained, 
and  I  believe   confiscated  at  Constantinople  in    1810.     I  am 
most  hap|)y  to  be  now  enabled  to  state,   that  "  this  was  not  in 
his  bond  ;"  lliat  he  was  employed  solely  as  a  painter,  and  that 
his  noble  patron  disavows  all  connexion  with  him,  except  as 
an  artist.     U  the  error  in  the  first  and  second  edition  of  this 
Poem  has  given  the  noble   Lord  a  moment's  pain,  I  am  very 
sorry  for  it ;  Sr.    Gropius  has  assumed  for  years  the  name  of 
his  agent ;  and  though  I  cannot  much  coiulemn  myself  for 
shuring  in  the  mistake  of  so  many,  I  am  hajjpy  in  being  one 
of  the  first  to  be  undeceived.     Indeed,  I   have  as  much  plea- 
sure in  contradicting  this,  tu  I  felt  regret  in  stating  it. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGfi.  253 

(7) 
Her  sons  too  weak  the  sacred  shrine  to  guard, 
Yet  felt  some  portion  of  their  mother''  s  pain. 

Stanza  xii.  lines  7  and  8. 
Tciiniiot  resist  availing  myself  of  the  permission  of  my  friend 
Dr.  Clarke,  whose  )iame  requires  no  comment  with  the  public, 
but  whose  sanction  will  add  ten  fold  weight  to  my  testimony,  to 
ii'.sert  the  following  extract  from  u  very  obliging  letter  of  his 
to  me,  as  a  note  lo  the  above  lines : 

"  VVhen  the  last  of  the  Metopes  was  taken  from  the  Parthe- 
non, and  in  moving  of  it  great  part  of  the  superstructure  with 
one  of  the  triglyphs,  was  thrown  down  by  the  workmen  whom 
Lord  Elgin  employed,  the  Disdar,  who  beheld  the  mischief 
done  to  the  building,  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  dropped  a 
tear,  and  in  a  supplicating  tone  of  voice,  said  to  Lusieri, 
TeXcj  ! — I  was  present." 
The  Disdar  alluded  to  was  the  father  of  the  present  Disdar. 

(8) 
Where  was  thine  ■i'Egis,  Pallas  I  that  appalled 
Stern  Aluric  and  Havoc  on  their  way  9 

Stanza  xiv.  lines  1  and  2. 

According  to  Zozimus,  Minerva  and  Achilles  frightened 
Alaric  from  the  Acropolis  ;  but  others  relate  that  the  Gothic 
king  was  nearly  as  mischievous  as  the  Scottish  peer. — See 
Chandler. 

(9) 
tlu:  netted  canopy. 


Stanza  xviii.  line  2. 
The  netting  to  prevent  blocks  or  splinters  from  falling  on 
deck  during  action. 

(10) 

But  not  in  silence  pass  Calypso's  isles. 

Stanza  xxix.  line  1. 

Goza  is  said  to  have  been  the  island  of  Calypso. 

(11) 

Land  of  Albania  !  let  me  bend  mine  eyes 
On  thee,  thou  rugged  nurse  of  savage  men  ! 

Stanza  xxxviii.  lines  6  and  6. 

Albania  comprises  part  of  Macedonia,  Illyria,  Chaonia,  and 
Epirus.  Iskander  is  the  Turkish  word  for  Alexander  ;  and  the 
celebrnted  St;anderbeg  (Lord  Alexander)  is  alluded  t(j  in  the 
third  and  fourth  lines  of  the  thirty-eight  stanza.  I  do  not  know 
whether  I  am  correct  in  making  Scanderbeg  the  countryninn 
of  Alexander,  who  was  born  at  I'ella  iu  Rlrxedon,  but  Mr. 

Y 


254  NOTES    TO    THE    SECOND    CANTO    OF 

Gibbon  terms  him  so,  and  adds  Pyrrhus  to  the  list,  in  speaking 
of  his  exploits. 

Of  Albiinia  Gibbon  remnrks,  that  a  country  "within  sight 
of  Italy  is  less  known  than  the  interior  of  America."  Circum- 
stances, of  little  consequence  to  mention,  led  IVIr.  Hobhouse 
and  myself  into  that  country  bel'ore  we  visited  any  other  part 
of  the  Ottoman  dominions  ;  nnd  with  the  exception  of  Major 
Leake,  then  officially  resident  at  Joannina,  no  other  English- 
men have  ever  advanced  beyond  the  capital  into  the  interior, 
as  that  gentleman  very  hitely  assured  me.  Ali  Pacha  was  at 
that  time  (October,  1809)  carrying  on  war  against  Ibrahim 
Pacha,  whom  he  had  driven  to  Berat,  a  strung  fortress  which 
he  was  then  besieging  ;  on  our  arrival  at  Joannina  we  were 
invited  to  Tepaleni,  his  Highness's  birth-place,  and  favourite 
Serai,  only  one  day's  distance  from  Berat ;  at  this  juncture 
the  Vizier  had  made  it  liis  head-quarters. 

After  some  stay  in  the  capital,  we  accordingly  followed  ;  but 
tho'  furnished  with  every  accommodation,  and  escorted  by  one 
of  the  Vizier's  secretaries,  we  were  nine  days  (on  account  of 
the  rains  in  accomplishing  a  journey  which,  on  our  return, 
b:nely  occupied  four. 

On  our  route  we  passed  two  cities,  Argyrocastro  and  Libo- 
chabo,  apparently  little  inferior  to  Yanina  in  size  ;  and  no  pen 
or  pencil  can  ever  do  justice  to  the  scenery  in  the  vicinity  of 
Zitza  and  Delvinachi,  the  frontier  village  of  Epirus  and  Alba- 
nia proper. 

On  Albania  and  its  inhabitants  I  am  unwilling  to  descant, 
because  this  will  be  done  so  much  better  by  my  fellow-traveller 
in  a  work  which  may  probably  precede  this  in  publication,  that 
I  as  little  wish  to  follow  as  1  would  to  anticipate  him.  But 
some  few  obsr-rvations  are  necessary  to  the  text. 

The  Arnaouts,  or  Albanese,  struck  me  forcibly  by  their 
resemblance  to  the  Highlanders  of  Scotland,  in  dress,  figure, 
ami  manner  of  living.  Their  very  mountains  seemed  Caledo- 
nian, with  a  kinder  climate.  The  kilt,  though  white;  the 
spare,  active  form  ;  their  dialect,  Celtic  in  its  sound,  and  their 
hardy  habits,  all  carried  me  back  to  Morven.  No  nation  are 
so  detested  and  dreaded  by  their  neigiibours  as  the  Albanese  : 
the  Greeks  hardly  regard  them  as  Christians,  or  the  Turks  as 
Moslems;  and  in  fact  tlipy  are  a  mixture  of  both,  and  some- 
times neither.  Their  iiabits  are  predatory ;  all  are  armed  ;  and 
the  red-shawled  Arnaouts,  the  Montenegrins,  Chimariots,  and 
(jegdes  are  treacherous :  the  others  ditler  somewhat  in  garb, 
and  essentially  in  character.  As  far  as  my  own  experience 
goes,  I  can  speak  favourably.  I  was  attended  by  two,  an  In- 
fidel and  a  Mussulman,  to  Constantinople  and  every  other  ]>art 
of  Turkey  v.liich  came  within  my  oliservation  ;  and  more  faith- 
fnl  in  peril,  or  indefatigable  in  service,  are  rarely  to  be  fo\m(i. 
The  Infidel  was  named  Basilius,  the  Moslem,  Dervish  Tahiri : 


CHiLDE  Harold's  pilgrimage.  255 

fhe  former  a  man  of  middle  age,  and  the  latter  about  my  own. 
Basili  was  strictly  charged  by  Ali  Pacha  in  person  to  attend  us  ; 
and  Dervish  was  one  ot  fifty  who  accompanied  us  through  the 
forests  of  Acarnania  to  the  banks  of  -Vctielous,  and  onward  to 
Messalonghi  in  /Etolia-  Th^^re  I  took  him  into  my  own  service 
and  never  had  occasion  to  repent  it  till  the  moment  of  my  de- 
parture. 

When  in  1810,  after  the  departure  of  my  friend  Mr.  H.  for 
England,  I  was  seized  wieh  a  severe  fever  in  the  Morea,  these 
men  saved  my  life  by  friglitening  away  my  Physician,  whose 
throat  they  threatened  to  cut  if  I  was  not  cured  within  a  given 
time.  To  this  consolatory  assurance  of  posthumous  retribution, 
and  a  resolute  refusal  of  Dr.  Romanelli's  [irescriptions,  1  attri- 
buted my  recovery.  I  had  left  my  last  remaining  servant  at 
Athens;  my  dragoman  was  as  ill  as  myself,  and  my  poor  Ar- 
naouts  nursed  me  with  an  attention  which  would  have  tloiie 
honour  to  civilization. 

They  had  a  variety  of  adventures  ;  for  the  Moslem,  Dervish, 
being  a  remarkably  handsome  man,  was  always  squabbling 
with  the  husbands  of  Athens  ;  insomuch  that  four  of  llie  prin- 
cipal Turks  paiil  me  a  visit  of  remonstrance  at  the  Convent, 
on  the  subject  of  his  having  taken  a  woman  from  the  bath — 
whom  he  had  lawfully  bought  however— a  thing  quite  contrary 
to  etiquette. 

Basili  also  was  extremely  gallant  amongst  his  own  persua- 
sions, and  had  the  greatest  veneration  for  the  church,  mixed 
with  the  highest  contempt  of  churchmen,  whom  he  cuifed  upon 
occasion  in  a  most  heterodox  manner.  Yet  he  never  passed  a 
church  without  crossing  himself ;  and  I  remember  the  risk  he 
ran  in  entering  St.  Sophia,  in  Stambol,  because  it  had  once 
been  a  place  of  his  worship.  On  remonstrating  with  him  on 
his  inconsistent  proceedings,  he  invariably  answered,  "  our 
church  is  holy,  our  priests  are  thieves  ;"  and  then  he  crossetf 
himself  as  usual,  and  boxed  the  ears  of  the  first  "papas"  who 
refused  to  assist  in  any  required  operation,  as  was  always  found 
to  be  necessary  where  a  priest  had  any  influence  wiih  the  Cogia 
Bashi  of  his  village.  Indeed  a  more  abandoned  race  of  mis- 
creants cannot  exist  than  the  lower  order  of  the  preek  clergy. 

When  preparations  were  made  for  my  return,  my  Albanians 
were  summoned  to  receive  their  pay.  iiasili  took  his  with  an 
awkward  show  of  regritat  my  intended  departure,  and  marched 
away  to  his  quarters  with  his  bag  of  piastres.  I  sent  for  Der- 
vish, but  for  some  time  he  was  not  to  be  found  ;  at  last  he 
entered,  just  as  Signior  Logotheti,  father  to  the  ci-devant 
Anglo-consul  of  Athens,  and  some  other  of  my  Greek  ac- 
quaintances paid  me  a  visit.  Dervish  took  the  money,  but  on 
a  sudden  ditshed  it  to  tlie ground  ;  and  clasping  his  hands,  which 
he  raised  to  his  forehead,  rushed  out  of  the  room  weeping  bit- 
terly.   From  that  moment  to  the  hour  of  my  embarkation,  he 


256  NOTES    TO   THE   SECOND    CANTO    OF 

continued  liis  lamentation,  and  all  our  efforts  to  console  him 
onij-  produced  tiiis answer,  "lie  leaves  me."  Signor  Logotbeti, 
wlio  never  wept  before  for  anj'  thing  less  than  the  loss  of  a 
para*,  melted;  the  padre  of  the  convent,  m)' attendants,  my 
visitors — andl  believe  that  even  Sterne's  "  I'oolish  fat  scullion," 
would  have  left  her  "  fisli  ketlle"  to  sympathize  with  the  un- 
alTected  and  Mnexi)ected  sorrow  of  this  barbarian. 

For  my  own  part,  when  I  remembered  that,  a  short  time 
before  my  departure  from  England,  a  noble  and  most  intimate 
iissoeiate  had  excused  himself  from  taking  leave  of  me  because 
lie  had  to  attend  a  relation  "  to  a  milliner's,"  I  felt  no  less 
surprised  than  humiliated  by  tlie  present  occurrence  and  the 
pcLst  recollection- 

That  Dervish  would  leave  me  with  some  regret  was  to  he 
expected  :  wlien  ma>ter  and  man  have  been^  scrambling  over 
the  mountains  of  a  dozen  provinces  together,  they  are  unwil- 
ling to  separate  :  but  his  present  feelings,  contrasted  with  his 
native  ferocity,  improved  my  opinion  of  the  human  heart.  I 
believe  this  almost  feudal  fidelity  is  frequent  amongst  them. 
One  day,  on  our  journey  over  Parnassus,  an  Englishman  in 
my  service  gave  him  a  push  in  some  dispute  about  the  baggage, 
which  he  unluckily  mistook  for  a  blow  ;  he  spoke  not,  but  sat 
down  leaning  his  liead  upon  his  bands.  Foreseeing  the  conse- 
quences, we  endeavoured  to  explain  away  the  affront,  which 
produced  the  following  answer  : — "  I  have  been  a  robber,  I  atn 
a  soldier  ;  no  captain  ever  struck  me  ;  yoti  are  my  master,  I 
hare  eaten  your  bread,  but  by  ^Aa^iread !  (a  usual  oath)  had 
it  been  otherwise,  I  would  have  stabbed  the  dog  your  servant, 
and  gone  to  the  mountains."  So  the  affair  ended,  but  from 
this  day  forward  he  never  thoroughly  forgave  the  thoughtless 
fellow  who  insulted  him. 

Dervish  excelled  in  the  dance  of  his  country,  conjectured 
to  be  a  remnant  of  the  ancient  Pjrrhic  :  be  that  as  it  may, 
it  is  manly,  and  requires  wonderful  agility.  It  is  very  distinct 
from  the  stupid  Ilomaika,  the  dull  round-about  of  the  Greeks, 
of  which  our  Athenian  party  had  so  many  specimens. 

The  Albanians  in  general  (I  do  not  mean  the  cultivators  of 
the  e.irth  in  the  provinces,  who  have  also  that  appellation, 
but  the  mountaineers)  have  a  fine  cast  of  countenance  ;  and 
the  most  beaiilil'ul  women  I  ever  beheld,  in  stature  and  in 
features,  we  saw  levelling  the  roml  broken  down  by  the  tor- 
rents between  Delvinachi  and  Libochabo.  Their  manner  of 
walking  is  truly  theatrical ;  but  this  strut  is  probably  the  effect 
of  the  capote,  or  cloak,  depending  from  one  shoulder.  Their 
long  hair  reminds  30U  of  the  Spartans,  and  their  courage  in 


Para,  about  the  fourth  of  a  farthing. 


ChlLDE   HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE.  257 

desultory  warfare  is  unquestionable.  Though  they  have  some 
cavalry  amongst  the  Gegdes,  I  never  saw  a  good  Arnaout 
horseman:  my  own  preferred  the  English  saddles,  which,  how- 
ever, they  could  never  keep.  But  on  foot  they  are  not  to  be 
subdued  by  fatigue. 

(12) 

and  passed  the  barren  spot, 


fVhere  sad  Penelope  overlooked  the  wave. 

Stanza  sxxix.  lines  1  and  2. 
Ithaca. 

03) 

Actium,  Lepanto,  fatal  Trafalgar. 

Stanza  xl.  line  5. 

Actium  and  Trafalgar  need  no  farther  mention.  The  battle 
of  Lepanto,  equally  blootly  and  considerable,  but  less  known, 
was  fought  in  the  Gulf  of  Patras ;  here  the  author  of  Don 
Quixote  lost  his  left  hand. 

And  hailed  the  last  resort  of  fruitless  love. 

Stanza  xli.  line  3. 

Leucadia,  now  Santa  Maura.  From  the  promontory  ( the 
Lover's  Leap  j  SapphO  is  said  to  have  thrown  herself. 

(15) 

many  a  Roman  chief  and  Asian  king. 

Stanza  xlv.  line  4. 

It  is  said,  that  on  the  day  previous  to  the  battle  of  Actium 
Anthony  had  thirteen  kings  at  his  levee. 

(16) 

Look  where  the  second  Ccesar's  trophies  rose ! 

Stanza  xlv.  line  6. 
Nicopolis,    whose    ruins  are  most    extensive,     is  at  some 
distance  from  Actium,    where  the  wall  of   the  Hippodrome 
survives  in  a  few  fragments. 

(H) 

Acherusia's  hike. 

Slanza'xlvii.  line  1. 

According  to  Pouqueville,  the  lake  of  Yanina;  but  Pou- 
queville  is  always  out. 


258  KOTES  TO  THE  SECOND  CANTO  OF 

(IS) 

To  greet  Albania's  chief. 

Stanza  xlvii.  line  4. 

The  celebrated  Ali  Pacha.  Of  this  extraordinary  man 
Ihere  is  an  incorrect  account  in  Pouq^ueville's  Travels. 

(19) 

Vet  here  and  there  some  darinff  monntain  band 
Disdain  his  po'ver,  and  from  their  rocky  hold 
Hurl  their  defiance  far,  nor  yield,  unless  to  gold. 

Stanza  xlvii.  line  7. 

Five  thousand  Suliots,  among,  the  rocks  and  in  the  castle  of 
Suli,  withstood  30,000  Albanians  for  eighteen  years  ;  the  castle 
at  last  was  taken  by  bribery.  In  this  contest  there  were  several 
acts  performed  not  unworthy  of   the  better  "days  of  Greece. 

(20) 

Monastic  Zitza  !  Sfc. 

Stanza  xlviii.  line  I. 

Tke  convent  and  village  of  Zitza  are  four  hours'  journey 
fioni  Joannina,  or  Yanina,  the  capital  of  the  Pachalick.  In 
the  valley  the  river  Kalamas  (once  the  Acheron)  flows,  and 
liot  far  from  Zitza  forms  a  fine  cataract.  The  situation  is 
jierhaps  the  finest  in  Greece,  though  the  approach  to  Delvi- 
nachi  and  parts  of  Acarnania  and  -^toliamay  contest  the  palm. 
Delphi,  Parnassus,  and  in  Attica,  even  Cape  Colonna  and 
Port  Raphti,  are  verj-  inferior  ;  as  also  everj- scene  in  Ionia,  or 
the  Troad  ;  I  am  almost  inclined  to  add  the  approach  to  Con- 
stantinople ;  but  from  the  difl\irent  features  of  the  last,  a  com- 
l)arison  can  hardlv  be  made. 

Ne7-e  dwells  the  caloyer. 

Stanza  xlix.  line  6. 
The  Greek  monks  are  so  called. 

(22) 

Nature's  volcanic  amphitheatre^ 

Stanza  li.  line  2. 

The  Chimariot  mountains  appear  to  have  been  volcanic. 

(23) 

leholl  black  Acheron  ? 

Stanza  li.line  6. 
KovF  called  Ka'amas. 

in  his  white  capote — 

Stanza  lii.  line  7. 
Albanese  cloke. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE.  259 

(25) 

The  sun  had  sunk  behind  vast  Tomer  it. 

Stanza  Iv.  line  1. 
Anciently  Mount  Tomarus. 

(26) 

And  Laos  wide  and  fierce  came  roaring  by.  \ 

Stanza  Iv.  line  2. 

The  river  Laos  was  full  at  the  time  the  author  passed  it,  and 
immediately  above  Tepaleen,  was  to  the  eye  as  wide  as  the 
Thames  at  Westminster ;  at  least  in  the  opinion  of  the  author 
and  his  fellow-traveller,  Mr.  Hobhouse,  In  the  summer  it 
must  be  much  narrower.  It  certainly  is  the  finest  river  in  the 
Levant  ;  neither  Achelous,  Alpheus,  Acheron,  Scamander 
nor  Cayster,  approached  it  in  breadth  or  beauty. 

(27) 
And  fellow-countrymen  have  stood  aloof. 

Stanza  Ixvi.  line  8. 
Alluding  to  the  wreckers  of  Cornwall. 

(28) 

the  red  wine  circling  fust. 

Stanza  Ixxi.  line  7. 

The  Albanian  Mussulmans  do  not  abstain  from  wine,  and 
indeed  very  few  of  the  others. 

(29) 
Each  Palikar  his  sabre  from  him  cast. 

Stanza  Ixxi.  line  7. 

Palikar,  shortened  when  addressed  to  a  single  person,  from 
^«^^!<ap«,  a  general  name  for  a  soldier  amongst  the  Greeks 
and  Albanese  who  speak  Romaic — it  means  properly  "  a  lad." 

(30) 

JVhile  thus  in  concert,  8fc. 

Stanza  Ixxii.  line  last. 

As  a  specimen  of  the  Albanian  or  Arnaout  dialect  of  the 
Illjric,  I  here  insert  two  of  their  most  popular  choral  songs, 
which  are  generally  chanted  in  dancing  by  men  or  women 
indiscriminately.  The  first  words  are  merely  a  kind  of 
chorus  without  meaning,  like  some  in  our  own  and  all  other 
languages. 

1.  1. 

Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,       Lo,  Lo,  I  come,  I   come ;  be 
Naciarura,  popuso.  thou  silent. 

2.  2. 
Naciarura  na  civin                    I  come,  f  run  ;  open  the  door 
Ha  pe  uderini  ti  hin.                     that  I  may  enter. 


260 


NOTES  TO    THE   SECOND   CANTO   OF 


3. 

Ha  pe  uderi  escrotini 
Ti  vin  ti  mar  servetini. 


Caliriote  me  surme 
Ea  ha  pe  pse  dua  tive. 

5. 
Buo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo, 
Gi  egem  spirta  esimiro. 

6. 

Caliriote  vu  le  I'unde 
Ede  vete  tunde  tunde. 

7. 
Caliriote  me  surme 
Ti  mi  put  e  poi  mi  le. 

8. 
Se  ti  puta  citi  mora 
Si  mi  ri  ni  veti  udo  gia. 

9. 
Va  le  nl  il  che  cadale 
Celo  more,  more  celo. 

10. 
Plu  hari  ti  tirete 
Plu  huron  cia  pra  seti. 


C^en  the  door  by  halves,  that 
I  may  take  my  turban. 

4. 

Caliriotes  •  with  the  dark 
eyes,  open  the  gate  that  I 
may  enter. 

5. 
Lo,  Lo,  I  hear  thee,  my  soul. 

6. 

An    Arnaout   girl,    in    costly 
garb,walks  with  graceful  pride. 

7. 
Caliriot  maid-K)f  the  dark  eyes, 
give  me  a  kiss. 
8. 
If   I  have  kissed  thee,    what 
hast  thou  gained  ?     My  soul 
is  consumed  with  fire. 
9. 
I><ince    lightly,    more   gently, 
and  gently  still. 
10. 
Make  not  so    much  dust    to 
destroy     your     embroidered 
hose. 


The  last  stanza  would  puzzle  a  commentator :  the  men  have 
certainly  buskins  of  the  most  beautiful  texture,  but  the  ladies 
(to  whom  the  above  is  supposed  to  be  addressed)  have  nothing 
under  their  little  yellow  boots  and  slippers  but  a  well-turned 
and  sometimes  very  white  ancle.  The  Arnaout  girls  are  much 
handsomer  than  the  Greeks,  and  their  dress  is  as  lar  more 
picturesque.  They  preserve  their  shape  much  longer  also,  from 
being  always  in  the  open  air.  It  is  to  be  observed,  that  the 
Arnaout  is  not  a  written  language ;  the  words  of  this  song, 
therefore,  as  well  as  the  one  which  follows,  are  spelt  according 
to  their  pronunciation.  They  are  copied  "hy  one  who  speaks 
aud  understands  the  dialect  perfectly,  and  who  is  a  native  of 
Athens. 

1.  1. 

Ndi  sefda  tinde  ulavossa  I  am  wounded  by  thy  love,  and 

Vettimi  upri  vj  lofsa.  have  loved  but  to  scorch  myself. 


•  The  Albanese,    particularly  the  women,   are    freriuently 
termed  "  Caliriotes"  for  what  reason  1  euc^uired  in  vain. 


CHJLDE  Harold's  pilgrimage. 


261 


Ah  vaisisso  mi  privi  lofse 
Si  mi  rini  mi  la  vosse. 

3. 

Uii  tassa  roba  stiia 
Sitti  eve  tulati  dua. 

4. 
Roba  stinori  ssidua 
Qu  mi  siiii  velti  ilua. 

5. 

Qiirmini  dua  civilenl 
lloba  ti  siarmi  tildieni. 

6. 

Utara  pisa  vaisisso  me  simi 

rin  ti  liapti. 
Eti  mi  bire  a  piste  si  gui  den- 

droi  tiltuti. 

7. 
Udi  vura  udoriiii  udiri  cicova 

cilti  mora 
Udorini  taldi  hoUna  u  ede 

cnimoni  mora. 


2. 

Thou  hast  consumed  me  !  Ah, 
maid  !  thou  bast  struck  me 
to  the  heart. 

3. 

I  have  said  I  wish  no  dowry  but 
thine  eyes  and  eyelashes. 

4. 

The  accursed  dowry  I  want  not, 
but  thee  only. 

5. 
Give  me  thy  charms,  and  let  the 
portion  feed  the  flames. 

0. 
I  have  loved  tbee,  maid,  with 
a   sincere  soul,  but   thou  has 
left  me  like  a  withered  tree, 

7. 
If  I  have  placed   my  liand   on 
Uiy  bo-iom,  what  have  I  gain- 
ed ?    my  iiand    is   withdrawn, 
but  retains  the  fiame. 

I  believe  the  two  last  stanzas,  as  t!iey  are  in  a  ditferent  mea- 
sure, ouirht  to  belong  to  usiotijer  l^allad.  An  idea  something 
similar  to  the  thought  in  the  last  line  was  expressed  by  Socrates, 
whose  arm  having  come  in  contact  with  one  of  his  "vrroxoXTrtoi, 
Critobulus  or  Cleobuliis,  the  philsopher,  complained  of  a  shoot- 
ing pain  as  far  as  liis  shoulder  for  some  days  after,  and,  there- 
fore, very  properly  resolved  to  teach  his  disciples  in  future 
without  touching  them. 

(31) 

Tamhourgi !   Tambour gi !  thy  'larum  afar,  ^-c. 

Song,  Stanza  i.  line  1. 
These  Stanzas   are    partly  taken   from   different  Albanese 
songs,  fis  far  as  T  was  able  to  make  them  out  by  the  exposition 
of  the  Albanese  in  Romaic  and  Italian. 

(32) 
Remember  the  moment  when  Previsa  fell. 

Song,  Stjinza  viii.  line  1. 
It  was  taken  by  storm  from  thi  French. 

(33) 
Fair  Greece !  sad  relics  of  departed  worth,  ^-c. 

Stanza  Ixxiii.  line  1. 
Some  thoughts  on  this  subject  will  be  found  in  the  subjoined 
papers. 


262  NOTES    TO    THT    SECOND    CANTO    OF 

(34) 

Spirit  of  Freedom',   when  on  PhyleKi  brow 
Thou  sat' at  icith  Tlirasyhulus  and  his  trai.i 

Stanza  Ixxiv.  lines  1  and  2. 
Phyle,  which  commands  <i  beautiliil  view   of  Athens,  has 
still  considerable  remains  ;  it  was  seized  by  Thrasybulus  pre- 
vious to  the  expulsion  of  the  Thirty. 

(35) 
Receive  the  fiery  Frank,  her  former  guest ; 

Stanza  Ixxvii.  line  4. 

When  taken  by  the  Latins,  and  retained  for  several  years. 
— See  GiBDON. 

(36) 

The  propheVs  tomb  of  all  its  pious  spoil. 

Stanza  Ixxvii.  line  6. 

Mecca  and  Medina  were  taken  some  time  ago  by  the 
Wahabees,  a  sect  yearly  increasing. 

(37) 
Thy  vales  of  ever-green,  thy  hills  of  snow — 

Stanza  Ixxxv.  line  3. 

On  many  of  the  mountains,  particularly  Liakura,  the  snow 
never  is  entirely  melted,  notwithstanding  the  intense  heat  of 
the  Summer ;  but  I  never  saw  it  lie  on  the  plains  even  in 
Winter. 

(38) 

S^ve  where  some  solitary  column  mourns       ■* 
Above  its  prostrate  brethren  of  the  cave. 

Stanza  Ixxxvi.  lines  1  and  2. 

Of  Mount  Pentelicus,  from  whence  the  marble  was  dug  that 
constructed  the  public  edifices  of  Athens.  The  modern  name 
is  mount  Mendeli.  An  immense  cave  formed  by  the  quarries 
still  remains,  and  will  till  the  end  of  time. 

(39) 
When  Marathon  became  a  7nagic  word — 

Stanza  Ixxxix.  line  7. 

"  Siste  Viator — heroa  calcas  !"  was  the  epitaph  on  (he  fa- 
mous Count  Merci ; — what  then  must  be  our  feelings  when 
standing  on  the  tumulus  of  the  two  hundred  (Greeks)  who  fell 
on  Marathon  ?  The  principal  barrow  has  recently  been  opened 
by  Fauvel;  few  or  no  relics,  as  vases,  «fec.  were  found  by  the 
excavator.  The  plain  of  Marathon  was  oft'ered  to  me  for  sale 
at  the  sum  of  sixteen  thousand  piastres,  about  nine  hundred 
hundred  pounds!  Alas! — "  Expende — q\iot  libras  in  duce 
summo — invenies" — was  the  dust  of  Miltiades  worth  no  more  ? 
it  could  scarcely  have  fetched  less  if  sold  by  weight. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE.  263 

PAPERS  REFERRED  TO  BY  NOTE  33. 

1. 

Before  I  say  any  thing  about  a  city  of  which  every  body, 
traveller  or  not,  has  thought  it  necessarj'  to  say  something,  I 
will  request  Miss  Owenson,  when  she  next  borrows  an  Athe- 
nian heroine  for  lier  four  volumes,  to  have  the  goodness  to 
marry  her  to  somebody  more  of  a  genteman  than  a  'Disdnr 
Aga,'  (who  by  the  bye  is  not  an  Aga)  the  most  impolitic  tf 
petty  officers,  the  greatest  patron  of  larceny  Athens  ever  saw, 
(except  Lord  E.)  and  the  unworthy  occupant  of  the  Acropoli-, 
on  a  handsome  annual  stipend  of  150  piastres  (eight  poun.  s 
sterling)  out  of  which  he  has  only  to  pay  his  garrison,  the 
most  iil-regulated  corps  in  the  ill-regulated  Ottoman  Empire. 
I  speak  it  tenderly,  seeing  I  was  once  the  cause  of  the  husband 
of  "  Ida  of  Athens,"  nearly  suffering  the  bastinado ;  and  be- 
cause tlie  said  "  Disdar"  is  a  turbulent  husband,  and  beats  his 
wife,  so  that  I  exhort  and  beseech  Miss  Owenson  to  sue  for  a 
separate  maintenance  in  behalf  of  "  Ida."  Having  premised 
thus  much,  on  a  matter  of  such  import  to  the  readers  of  ro- 
mances, I  may  now  leave  Ida,  to  mention  her  birthplace. 

'Setting  aside  the  nnagic  of  the  name,  and  all  those  asso- 
ciations which  it  would  be  pedantic  and  superfluous  to  re- 
capitulate, the  very  situation  of  Athens  would  render  it  the 
favourite  of  all  who  have  eyes  for  art  or  nature.  The  climate, 
to  me  at  least,  appeared  a  perpetual  spring  ;  during  eight 
months  I  never  passed  a  day  without  being  as  many  hours  on 
horseback:  rain  is  extremely  rare,  snow  never  lies  in  the 
plains,  jind  a  cloudy  day  is  an  agreeable  rarity.  In  Spain, 
Portugal,  and  everj-  part  of  the  East  which  I  visited,  except 
Ionia  and  Attica,  I  perceived  no  such  superiority  of  climate 
to  our  own  ;  and  at  Conslantinople,  wliere  I  passed  May, 
June,  and  part  of  July,  (ISIO)  you  mighf'damn  ihe  climate, 
and  complain  of  spleen,"  five  ilays  out  of  seven. 

The  air  of  tlie  INIorea  is  heavy  and  unwholesome,  liut  the 
moment  you  pass  the  isthmus  in  the  direction  of  Meg;ira  the 
change  is  strikingly  perceptible.  But  I  fear  Hesiod  will  still 
be  found  correct  in  his  descriplon  of  a  Bo-olion  winter. 

Wi-  found  at  Livadia  an  "  Esprit  fort"  in  a  Greek  bishop,  of 
all  freelliinkers  !  This  worthy  hypocrite  rallied  his  own  reli- 
gion with  great  intrepidity  (but  not  before  his  flock)  and  talked 
of  amass  as  a  "  Coglioneria,"  It  was  impossible  to  think 
better  of  him  for  this  ;  but,  for  a  Boeotian,  he  was  brisk  with 
ail  his  absurdity.  This  phenomenon,  (with  the  exception  in- 
fleed  of  Thebes,  the  remains  of  Chneronea,  the  plain  of  Flatea, 
Orchomenus,  Livadia,  and  its  nominal  cave  of  'i'rophonius,) 
was  the  only  remarkable  thing  we  saw  before  we  passed  Mount 
Cilhfpron. 
'I'he  fountain  of  Dirce  turns  a  mill :  at  least,  my  companion 


2C1  NOTES    TO    THE    SECO.VD    CANTO   01* 

(who  resolving  to  be  nt  once  cleanly  anil  classical  bathed  in  it) 
pronounced  it  to  be  (he  fountain  of  Diice,  and  any  body  who 
thinks  it  worth  while  may  contradict  him.  At  Castri  we  drank 
of  half  a  dozen  streamlets,  some  not  of  the  purest,  before  we 
decided  to  our  satisfaction  which  was  the  true  Ca.stalian,  and 
even  that  liad  a  villanous  twang,  probably  from  the  snow,  though 
it  dill  not  throw  us  into  an  epic  fever,  liice  poor  Dr.  Chandler. 

From  Fort  Ph}  L',  of  which  large  remains  still  exist,  the 
Plain  of  Athens,  Pentelicus,  Hymettus,  the  ^Egean,  and  the 
Acropolis,  burst  upon  the  eye  at  once  ;  in  my  opinion,  a  more 
glorious  prospect  than  even  Cintra  or  Istambol.  Not  the  view 
from  the  Troad,  with  Ida,  the  Hellespont,  and  the  more  dis- 
tant Mount  Athos,  can  equal  it,  though  so  superior  in  extent. 

I  heard  much  of  the  beauty  of  Arcadia,  but  excepting  the 
view  from  the  monastery  of  Megaspelion  (which  is  inferior  to 
Zitea  in  a  command  of  country)  and  the  descent  from  the  moun- 
tains on  the  way  from  Triiiiliza  to  Argos,  Arcadia  has  little  to 
recommend  it  beyond  the  name. 

"  Sternitur,  et  diilces  moriens  reminiscitur  Argos." 
Virgil  could  have  put  llii.s  into  the  mouth  of  none  but  an  Ar- 
give  ;  and  (with  reverence  belt  spoken)  it  does  not  deserve 
the  epithet.  And  if  the  Polynices  of  Statius,  "  In  mediis  audit 
duo  litora  campis,"  did  actually  hear  both  shores  in  crossing 
the  isthmus  of  Corinth,  he  had  better  ears  than  have  ever  been 
■Worn  in  such  a  journey  since. 

'•  Athens,"  says  a  celebrated  topographer,  "  is  still  the  most 
polished  city  of  Greece."  Perhaps  it  may  of  Greeee,  but  not 
of  the  Greeks ;  for  Joannina  in  Epirus  is  universally  allowed, 
among  themselves,  to  be  superior  in  the  wealth,  refinement, 
learning,  and  dialect  of  its  inhabitants.  The  Athenians  are 
remarkable  for  their  cunning;  and  the  lower  orders  are  not 
improi)erly  characterized  in  that  proverb,  which  classes  them 
with  "  the  Jews  of  Salonica,  and  the  Turks  of  the  Negro- 
pont." 

Among  the  various  foreigners  resident  in  Athens,  French, 
Italians,  Germans,  Ragusans,  <fec.  there  was  never  a  difference 
of  opinion  in  their  estimate  of  the  Greek  character,  thoug  i  on 
all  other  topics  they  disputed  with  great  acrimony. 

Mr.  Fauvel,  the  French  consul,  who  has  passed  thirty  years 
principally  at  Athens,  and  to  whose  talents  as  an  artist  and 
manners  as  a  gentleman  none  who  have  known  him  can  refuse 
their  testimony,  has  frequently  declared  in  my  hearing,  that 
the  Greeks  do  not  deserve  to  be  emancipated  ;  reasoning  on  the 
grounds  of  their  "  national  and  individual  depravity,"  while 
he  forgot  that  such  depravity  is  to  be  attributed  to  causes  which 
can  only  be  n-moved  by  the  measure  he  reprobates. 

Mr.  Roqiif,  a  French  merchant  of  respectability  long  settled 
in  Athens,  asserted  with  the  most  amusing  gravity  ;  "  Sir, 
they  are  the  same  Canaille  that  existed  in  the  days  (rf  Themis- 


'  CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE.  26.5 

toclex !"  an  alarming  remaik  to  the  "  Laiit'uilor  temporis  acti." 
The  ancients  banished  Tlieniistocles  ;  the  moslern  clieal  Mon- 
sieur Roque:  thus  great  men  have  ever  been  treated  ! 

In  short,  all  the  Franks  who  are  fiKtures,  and  most  of  the 
Englishmen,  Germans,  Danes,  &c.  of  passage,  came  over  by 
degrees  to  their  opinion,  on  much  the  same  grounds  that  a 
Turk  in  England  vvoiild  condemn  the  nation  iiy  wliolesale,  be- 
cause he  was  wronged  by  his  lacquey,  and  overcharged  by  his 
washerwoman. 

Certainly  itwasiiot  a  little  staggering  when  theSieurs  Fauvel 
and  Lusieri,  the  two  greatest  demagogues  of  Ihe  day,  who 
divide  between  them  the  power  of  Pericles  and  the  i)opularity 
of  Cleon,  and  puzzle  the  poor  Waywode  with  perpetual  diii'er- 
ences,  agreed  in  the  utter  condemnation,  "  nulla  virtute  re- 
demptinn,"  of  the  Greeks  in  general,  and  of  the  Athenians 
in  particular. 

For  my  own  humble  opinion,  I  am  loath  to  hazard  it, 
knowing,  as  I  do,  that  there  be  now  in  MS.  no  less  than  five 
tours  of  the  first  magnitude  and  of  the  most  threatening  aspect, 
all  in  typographical  array,  by  persons  of  wit  and  honour,  and 
regular  common-place  books  ;  but,  if  I  may  say  this  without 
offence,  it  seems  to  me  rather  hard  to  declare  so  positively  anil 
pertinaciously,  as  almost  every  body  has  declared,  that  the 
Gl^eeks,  because  they  are  very  bad,  will  never  be  better. 

Eton  and  Sonnini  have  led  us  astray  by  their  panegyrics  and 
projects  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  De  Pauw  and  Thornton  have 
debased  the  Greeks  beyond  their  demerits. 

The  Greeks  will  never  be  independent ',  they  will  never  be 
sovereigns  as  heretofore,  and  God  forbid  they  ever  should !  but 
tliey  may  be  subjects  without  being  slaves.  Our  colonies  are 
not  independent,  but  they  are  free  and  industrious,  and  such 
may  Greece  be  herealter. 

At  present,  like  the  Catholics  of  Ireland  and  the  Jews 
throughout  the  world,  and  such  other  cudgelled  and  heterodox 
people,  they  suffer  all  the  moral  and  physical  ills  that  can  afflict 
humanity.  Their  life  is  a  struggle  against  truth  ;  they  are 
vicious  in  their  x)wn  defence.  They  are  so  unused  to  kindness, 
that  when  they  occasionally  meet  with  it  they  look  upon  it 
with  suspicion,  as  a  dov  often  beaten  snaps  at  your  fingers  if 
you  attempt  to  caress  him.  "  They  are  ungrateful,  notoriously 
abominably  ungrateful!" — this  is  the  general  cry.  Now,  in 
the  name  of  Nemesis  !  for  what  are  they  to  be  gratelul  ? 
Where  is  the  himian  being  that  ever  conferred  a  benefit  on 
Greek  or  (Jreeks  ?  Tliey  are  to  be  grateful  to  the  Turks  for 
their  fetters,  and  to  the  Franks  for  their  broken  promises  and 
lying  counsels.  They  are  to  be  grateful  to  the  artist  who  en- 
graves their  ruins,  and  to  the  antiquary  who  carries  them  away ; 
to  the  traveller  whose  Janissary  flogs  them,  and  to  the  scriblder 
whose  journal  abuses  them  !  This  is  the  amount  of  their  obli- 
gations to  foreign*. r». 

Z 


266  NOTES    TO    THE    SECOND    CANTO    OF 

II. 

Athens,  Franciscan  Convent,  Jamiary2Z,  1811. 

Amongst  the  rem)iants  of  the  biirbarous  policy  of  the  earlier 
aires,  are  the  traces  of  bondage  which  yet  exist  in  ilifterent 
countries  ;  whose  inhabitants,  however  divided  in  religion  and 
niiiniier'i,  almost  all  ap^ree  in  op])ression. 

Tlie  Eiip^lish  have  at  last  compassionated  their  Negroes,  and 
under  a  less  bigoted  government,  may  probulily  one  day  release 
llieir  Catholic  brethren  :  bnt  the  interposition  of  foreigners 
alone  can  emancipate  the  Greeks,  who,  otherwise,  appear  to 
have  as  small  a  chance  of  redemption  from  the  Turks,  as  the 
Jews  have  from  mankind  in  general, 

or  the  ancient  Greeks  we  know  more  than  enough  !  at  least 
the  younger  men  of  Europe  devote  much  of  their  lime  to  the 
study  of  the  Greek  writers  and  history,  which  would  be  more 
usefiilly  spent  in  mastering  their  own.  Of  the  moderns,  we 
are  perhaps  more  neglectful  than  they  deserve;  and  while  every 
man  of  any  pretensions  to  learning  is  tiring  out  his  jouth,  and 
often  his  age,  in  the  study  of  the  language  and  of  the  harangues 
of  the  Athenian  demagogues  in  favour  of  freedom,  the  real  or 
supposed  descendants,  of  these  sturdy  republicans  are  lelt  to 
the  actual  tyranny  of  their  masters,  although  a  very  slight  effort 
is  required  to  strike  off  their  chains. 

To  talk,  as  the  Greeks  Ihemselves  do,  of  their  rising  again  to 
their  pristine  superiority,  would  be  ridiculous  ;  as  the  rest  of  the 
world  must  resume  its  barbarism,  after  re-asserting  the  sover- 
eignty of  Greece  :  but  there  seems  to  be  no  very  great  obstacle 
except  in  the  apatliy  of  the  Franks,  to  their  becoming  an 
useful  dependancy,  or  even  a  I'ree  state  with  a  proper  guarantee  ; 
miller  correction,  however,  be  it  spoken,  for  many  and  well- 
informed  men  doubt  the  practability  even  of  this. 

The  (Jreeks  have  never  lost  their  hope,  though  they  are  now 
more  divided  in  opinion  on  the  subject  of  their  probable  deli- 
verers. Religion  recommends  the  Russians  ;  but  they  have  been 
twice  deceived  and  abandoned  by  that  power,  and  the  dreadful 
lesson  they  received  after  the  jNluscovite  desertion  in  the  Mo- 
rea  has  never  been  forgotten.  The  French  Ihey  dislike;  al- 
thougl)  the  subjugation  of  the  rest  of  Europe  will,  probably, 
be  attended  by  the  deliverance  of  continental  Greece.  The 
islanders  look  1o  the  English  for  succour,  as  they  have  very 
lately  possessed  Ihemselves  of  the  Ionian  republic,  Corfu  ex- 
cepted. But  whoever  appear  with  arms  in  their  hands  will 
he  welcome  :  and  when  that  day  arrives,  heaven  have  mercy  on 
the  Ottomans,  (hey  cannot  expect  it  from  the  Giaours. 

Hut  instead  of  considering  what  they  have  been,  and  spe- 
culating on  what  they  niay  be,  let  us  look  attheui  as  they  are. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGi:.  267 

And  here  it  is  impossible  to  reconcile  the  contrariety  of 
opinions  5  some,  particularly  the  merchants,  decryinc:  Ihe 
Geeeks  in  the  stronpfest  language  ;  others,  srenerally  travellers, 
turning  periods  in  their  eulogy,  and  publishing  very  curioii* 
speculations  gralted  on  their  lormer  state,  which  can  have  no 
more  ellecton  theirpresent  lot,  than  the  existence  of  the  Incas 
on  the  future  lortunes  of  Peru. 

One  very  ingenious  person  terms  them  the  "  natural  allies" 
of  Englishmen  ;  another,  no  less  ingenious,  will  not  allow 
them  to  be  the  allies  of  any  body,  and  denies  their  very  descent 
from  the  ancients;  a  third,  more  ingenious  than  either,  builds 
a  Greek  empire  on  a  Russian  foundation,  and  realizes  (on 
paper)  all  the  chimeras  of  Catharine  II.  As  to  the  question 
of  the  descent,  wiiat  can  it  import  whether  the  Mainnotes 
are  the  lineal  Laconians  or  not?  or  the  present  Athenians  as 
indigenous  as  the  bees  of  Ilymettus,  or  as  the  grasshoppers, 
to  which  they  once  likened  thnmselves?  What  linglishmaa 
cares  if  he  be  of  a  Danish,  Saxon,  Norman,  or  Trojan  blood? 
or  who,  except  a  Welch-man,  is  afflicted  with  a  desire  of 
being  descended  from  Caractacns  ? 

The  poor  Greeks  do  not  so  much  abound  in  the  good  things 
of  this  world,  as  to  render  even  their  claims  to  antiquity  an 
object  of  envy :  it  is  very  cruel,  then,  in  Mr.  Thornton,  to 
disturb  them  in  the  possession  of  all  that  time  has  left  them  : 
viz.  their  pedigree,  of  which  they  are  the  more  tenacion*,  as 
it  is  all  they  can  call  their  own.  It  would  be  worth  while  to 
jjubiish  together,  and  compare,  the  works  of  Messrs  Thornton, 
de  Pauw,  Eton  and  Sonnini ;  paradox  on  one  side,  and  preju- 
dice on  the  other.  Mr.  Tliornton  conceives  himself  to  have 
claims  to  public  confidence  from  a  fourteen  years  residence  in 
Pera  ;  perhaps  he  may  on  the  subject  of  the  Turks,  but  this 
can  give  him  no  more  insight  into  the  real  state  of  Greece  and 
her  inhaliitants,  than  as  many  years  spent  in  Wajiping  into 
that  of  the  Western  Highlands, 

The  Greeks  of  Constantinople  live  in  Fanal ;  and  if  Mr. 
Thornton  did  not  oftener  cross  the  Golden  Horn  than  his 
brother  merchants  are  accustomed  to  do,  I  should  place  no 
great  reliance  on  his  information.  I  actually  heard  one  of  these 
gentlemen  boast  of  their  little  general  intercoirrse  with  the 
city,  and  assert  of  himself  with  an  air  of  triumph,  that  he  had 
been  but  four  times  at  Constantinople  in  as  many  years. 

As  to  j\lr.  Thornton's  voyages  in  the  Black  Sea  with  Greek 
vessels,  they  gave  him  the  same  idea  of  (ireece  as  a  cruise  to 
Berwick  in  a  Scotch  smack  would  of  Johnny  (i rot's  house. 
Upon  what  grounds  then  does  he  arrogate  the  right  of  con- 
demning by  wholesale  a  body  of  men,  of  whom  he  can  know 
little  ?  It  is  rather  a  curious  circumstance  that  Mr.  Thornton, 
who  so  lavishly  dispraises  Pouqueville  on  every  occasion  of 
iDHUtioniug  the  Turks,  has  yet  recourse  to  him  as  authority 


208  NOTES    TO   THE    SECOND    CANTO    OF 

on  ilie  Greeks,  ami  lerms  liim  an  impnrfial  observer.  Now 
Dr.  rouqiieville  is  as  )iltl(i  entitled  to  that  appellation,  as  Mr. 
Tlioi  iiton  to  conler  it  on  him. 

The.  lact  is,  we  are  tleplornlily  in  want  of  information  on 
the  sui)iect  of  the  Greeks,  ami  in  parlieular  their  literature, 
nor  is  liiere  any  proi)al)ilily  ol'  our  being  better  acquainieil, 
till  our  intercourse  lieconies  more  intimate  or  their  indepen- 
tlence  confirnieil ;  the  relations  of  passing  travellers  are  as 
little  to  be  depended  on  as  the  invectives  of  angry  factors; 
but  till  souiething  more  can  be  attained,  we  must  be  content 
wilh  the  little  lo  he  acquired  from  similar  sources." 

However  defective  tliese  maybe,  the}- are  preferable  to  tlie 
]iaradoxes  of  men  who  have  read  superficially  of  the  ancients, 
and  seen  nothing  of  the  moderns,  such  as  De  Pauw  ;  who, 
when  he  asserls  that  the  15ritish  breetl  of  horses  is  ruined  by 
Newmarket,  and  that  the  SiKUlans  were  cowards  in  the  field, 
l-elra.vs  an  equal   knowledge  of    English   horses  and  Spartan 


*  A  word,  di.  ]i(i.ssant  with  Mr.  Thornton  and  T)r.  Pon- 
queville!  who  \\n\^>  heeti  guilty  betsveen  them  of  sadly  clipping 
liie  Sultan's  'J'uikisli. 

Dr.  Ponqueville  t.  ll-  a  long  story  of  a  Moslem  who  swal- 
lowed corrossive  sublimale  in  such  quantities  that  he  acquired 
the  name  of  "  S'tfeyma/i  Yei/eii,"  i.  e.  quoth  the  Doctor, 
''  Siifei/niaii,  the  eater  of  corrossive  sufilimate."  "  Aha" 
thinks  i\Ir.  Thornton  (angry  with  the  Doctor  for  the  fiftieth 
time)  "have  1  caught  yon?" — Then,  in  a  note  twice  the 
thickness  of  the  Doctor's  anecdote,  he  questions  the  Doctor's 
jiroficiency  in  the  Tmki>h  tongue,  and  his  veracity  in  his  own. 
'tpor,"  observes  Mr.  'i'hornton  (after  inflicting  on  us  the  tough 
participle  of  a  Turkish  verb)  "  it  means  nothing  more  than 
Siileyman  the  cater,"  and  quite  cashiers  the  supplementary 
^' snblimatc."  Now  both  are  right,  and  both  are  wrong.  If 
jMr.  Thornton,  wiien  he  next  resides  "  fourteen  years  in  the 
factory,"  will  consult  his  Turkish  dii-lionary,  or  ask  any  of  his 
Slamboiine  acquaintance,  he  will  discover  that  Sidei/ma'n 
ycyi?//,"  put  tcigt-ther  discreetly,  mean  the  "  Siral/ower  of  s!/b- 
//wrt^?"  without  any  "  S'/Zei/man"  in  the  case:  ^' Sii/ei/?na" 
signifying  "  eorro.sire  si//i/i)nafe,"  and  not  being  a  proper  name 
(.11  this  occasion,  althougii  it  bean  orthodox  name  enough  with 
the  addition  of  w.  After  Mr.  Thornton's  fregruent  hints  of 
profound  Orientalism,  he  might  have  found  this  out  before  he 
Siing  such  [la^ans  over  Dr.  Ponqueville. 

Alter  this,  I  think  "  Travellers  in'rs/ts  Factors"  shall  be  our 
motto,  tho\igh  the  above  ?vlr.  Thornton  has  condemned  "hoc 
geinis  omne,"  lor  mistake  and  misrepresentation.  "  Ne  Sutor 
ultra  crepidam," — "No  merchant  bexond  his  bales."  N.  B. 
Tor  the  benefit  of  Mr,  Thornton  "  Sutur"  is  not  a  proper  name, 


'  CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILCni.AIAGE,  -6D 

men.  His  "philo'sophical  observations,"  have  a  nnicli  better 
claim  tothetiUt-of  "  poetical."  Itcoiikl  not  be  expected  that 
he  who  so  liberally  condemns  some  of  the  most  celebrated  in- 
stitutions of  the  ancient,  should  have  mercy  on  the  modern 
Greeks;  and  it  fortunately  happens,  that  the  absurdity  of  his 
hypothesis  on  their  fore-fathers,  refutes  his  sentence  on  them- 
selves. 

Let  us  trust,  then,  that  in  spite  of  the  prophecies  of  De  Pauw, 
and  the  doubts  of  .Mr.  Thornton,  there  is  a  reasonable  hoi^e  of 
the  redemption  of  a  race  of  men,  who,  whatever  may  be  the 
errors  of  their  religion  and  policy,  have  been  amply  punished 
by  three  centuries  and  a  half  of  captivity. 


III. 

Athens,  Franciscan  Convent,  March  17,  1^11. 
"  I  must  have  some  talk  with  this  learned  Theban." 

Some  time  after  my  return  from  Constantinople  to  this  city, 
I  received  the  ihirty-lirst  numiier  of  the  Edinburgh  Review  as 
a  great  favour,  and  certainly  at  this  distance  an  acceptable  one, 
from  the  captain  of  an  English  frigate  oft"  Salamis.  In  that 
number,  Art.  3,  containing  the  review  of  a  French  translation 
of  Strabo,  there  are  introduced  some  remarks  on  the  modern 
Greeks  and  their  literature,  with  a  short  account  of  Coray,  a 
co-translator  in  the  French  version.  On  these  remarks  I  mean 
to  ground  a  few  observations,  and  the  spot  where  t  now  write 
will,  I  hope,  be  sufTicient  excuse  for  introducing  them  in  a 
work  in  some  degree  connected  with  the  subject.  Coray,  the 
most  celebrated  of  living  (ireeks,  at  least  among  the  Franks, 
was  born  at  Scio  (in  the  Ueview  Smyrna  is  stated,  I  have 
reason  to  think,  incorrectly),  and,  besides  the  translation  of 
Beccaria  anil  otiier  works  mentioned  by  the  reviewer,  has 
piiblisheil  a  lexicon  in  Romaic  and  French,  if  I  may  trust  the 
assurance  of  some  Danish  travellers  lately  arrived  from  I'aris  ; 
huttlie  latest  we  have  seen  iiere  in  French  and  (ireek  is  that 
of  Gregory  Zolikogloon.  Coray  has  recently  been  involved  in 
an  unpleasant  controversy  wilh'^M.  Gail,*  a  Parisian  commen- 


•  In  Gail's  pamphlet  against  Coray,  he  talks  cf  "  throwing 
the  insolent  Helleniste  out  of  the  windows.'"  On  this  a  French 
critic  exclaims,  "  Ah,  my  God  !  throw  an  Helleniste  out  of 
the  window!  what  a  sacrilege  !"  it  certainly  would  be  a  s( - 
rious  business  fur  those  authors  who  dwell  in  the  attics:  but  I 

Z2 


270  NOTES    TO    THE    SECOND    CANTO    07 

tator  ami  alitor  of  some  translations  from  the  Greek  poets,  in 
cojiseqiience  of  the  Institute  iiavinir  awarded  him  the  prize  for 

his  version  of  Hippocrates'  teji  v^xtu",  ttc.  to  the  disparage- 
ment, and  conse()ueiUl)'  tlispleasure,  of  the  saiti  Gail.  To  his 
exertions  liteiary  and  patriotic  great  praise  is  undoubtedly  due, 
hut  a  part  of  tliat  praise  ouglit  not  to  be  withheld  irom  the  two 
hrotht-rs  Zosimado  (merciiants  settled  in  Legliorn)  wlio  sent 
him  to  Paris,  and  maintHined  him,  for  the  express  purpose  ot 
etucidaling  the  ancient,  and  adding  to  the  nK)dern,  researches 
of  his  countrymen.  Coray,  however,  is  not  considered  by  his 
countrymen  eijiial  to  some  who  lived  in  the  two  last  centuries  ; 
more  particularly  Dorotlu'us  of  Mitylene,  whose  Hellenic 
writings  are  so  nmch  esteemed  by  tlie  Greeks  that  Miletius 
terms  him, —  "  jw.£Ta  rov  &8icv^i^r,v  x.m  ^ivotpavTo,  aci7To? 
'£Mjivia;»  "     (P.  ^24.  Ecclesiastical  History,  vol.  iv.) 

Panagiotes  Kodrikas,  tiie  Translator  of  Tontenelle,  and 
Kamarascs,  who  translated  Ocellus  Lucanus  on  the  Universe 
into  Frencl),  Cliri-iodouhis,  and  more  particularly  Psalida, 
^vhom  I  have  conversed  with  in  Joannin  >,  are  also  in  high  re- 
late among  their  literati.  The  last-mentioned  has  published 
in  iloniair  and  Latin  a  work  on  "  True  Happiness,"  dedicated 
to  Catherine  II.  But  Polyzois,  who  is  stated  by  the  reviewer 
to  he  the  only  modern  except  Coray  who  has  distinguished 
himself  by  a  knowl.-'dge  of  Hellenic,  if  he  be  the  Polyzois 
Lampanitziotes  of  Yanina,  has  pub'islied  a  number  of  editions 
in  Romaic,  was  neitiier  more  or  less  liian  an  itinerant  vender 
of  books  ;  with  the  contents  of  which  he  had  no  concern  be- 
yond his  name  on  the  title  paa:e,  placed  there  to  secure  his 
jjroperty  in  tt)e  publication  ;  and  he  was,  moreover,  a  man 
utterly  destitute  of  scholastic  acquirements.  As  the  name, 
however,  is  not  uncommon,  some  other  Polyzois  may  have 
edited  the  Ei'istle  of  Aristienefus. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  tiiat  the  sjstem  of  continental  blockade 
Ins  closed  liie  lew  channels  through  wliich  the  Greeks  received 
liieir  publications,  particularly  Venice  and  Trieste.  Even  the 
common  Granmiais  for  children  are  become  too  dear  for  the 
lower  orders.  x\mongst  their  original  works  the  Geograpliy 
of  Meletius,  Archbishop  of  Athens,  and  a  multitude  of  theo- 
I'lrical  quartos  and  poetical  pamphlets  are  to  be  met  withT* 
tneir  gramunirs  and  lexicons  of  iwo,  tiiree,  and  four  languaa-es 
;-.re  numerous  and  excellent.  Their  poetry  is  in  rhyme,  I'he 
most  singular  piet-e  I  have  lately  seen  is  a  satire  in  dialogue 
between   a  Russian,  English,  and  French   trav^dler,  and  the 


h:'.ve  quotetl  ih'^  passaare  nu'rely  to  prove  the  similarity  of  style 
aniong  the  controver.  ialists  o)  all  polished  coinitries;  London 
or  Edinburgh  could  hardly  parallel  this  Parisian  ebullition. 


/  CKILDE    H.inOLD's    PILGRIMAGE,  271 

WaywoJe  of  H'allacliia  (or  BlMckbey,  as  tliey  term  him),  an 
iiictibisiiop,  a  mercliunt,  ami  Cogia  Baclii  (or  primate),  in 
succession  ;  to  ail  of  wliom  under  the  Turks  the  writer  attri- 
butes then"  present  degeneracy.  Their  songs  are  sometimes 
pretty  and  pathetic,  but  their  tunes  generally  unpleasing  to 
the  ear  of  a  Frank :  the  best  is  the  famous  "  Aeute  Trails;  Tt^ 
h.>.\-/:vu»,  by  the  unfortunate  Riga.  But  from  a  catalogue 
of  more  than  sixty  aulhois,  now  before  me,  only  fifteen  can 
be  found  who   have  touched  on  any  theme  except  theolo^-y. 

I  am  entrusted  with  a  commission  by  a  (iieek  of  Atuens 
named  .Murmarotouri  to  make  arrangemenfs,  if  possible,  lor 
printing  in  London  a  translation  of  Barthelemi's  Anarcharsis 
in  Romaic,  as  he  has  no  other  opportunity,  unless  he  dispatches 
the  MS.  to  Vienna  jjy  the  Black  Sea  and'  Danube. 

The  reviewer  mentions  a  school  established  al  Hecafonesi 
and  suppressed  at  the  instigation  of  Sebastian! :  he  means  Ci- 
donles,  or,  in  Turkish,  Ilaivali  ;  a  town  on  the  continent 
where  that  institution  lor  a  Innidred  students  and  three  profes- 
sors still  exists.  It  is  true  that  this  establishment  was  disturbed 
by  the  Porte,  imder  the  ridiculous  pretext  that  the  Greeks 
were  constructing  a  fortress  instead  of  a  college  ;  but  on  in- 
vestigation, and  the  payment  of  some  purses  to  the  Divan,  it 
ha.s  been  permitted  to  continue.  The  principal  professor, 
nameil  Venuimin,  (i.  e.  Benjamin),  is  stated  to  be  a  man  of 
talent,  but  a  freethinker.  He  was  born  in  Lesbos,  studied  in 
Italy,  and  is  master  of  Hellenic  Latin,  and  some  Frank  lan- 
guuffes:  besides  a  smattering  of  the  sciences. 

Though  it  is  not  my  intention  to  enter  farther  on  this  topic 
than  may  allude  to  the  article  in  question,  I  cannot  but  observe 
ttiat  the  reviewer's  lamentation  over  the  fall  of  the  Greeks 
appears  singular,  when  he  closes  it  with  these  words:  "  ifye 
chu?ige  is  to  be  atlribnted  to  their  misfortunes  rather  than  to 
any  '  physical  degradation.'  "  It  may  be  true  that  the  Greeks 
are  not  physically  degenerated,  and  that  Constantinople  con- 
tained on  the  day  when  it  changed  masters  as  many  men  of  six 
feet  and  upv.ards  as  in  the  hour  of  prosperity ;  but  ancient  his- 
tiiiy  an  i  modern  politics  instruct  us  that  somelhitig  more  than 
physical  periection  is  necessary  to  preserve  a  state  in  vigor  and 
independence;  and  the  Greeks,  in  particular,  are  a  melancholy 
example  of  the  near  connection  between  moral  degradation 
and  national  decay. 

Tiie  reviewer  mentions  a  plan  "  ve  believe"  by  Potemkin 
f  jr  the  puriricrition  of  the  Romaic,  and  J  have  endeavoured  in 
vain  to  procure  any  tidings  or  traces  of  its  existence.  There 
was  an  academy  in  SI.  Petersburg!!  for  the  Greeks  ;  but  it  was 
suppressed  by  Paul,  and  has  not  been  revived  by  his  suc- 
cessor. 

There  is  a  slip  of  the  pen,  and  if  can  only  be  a  slip  of  the 


272  NOTES    TO   THE    SECOND    CANTO   OF 

pen,  ill  p.  58,  No.  31.  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  where  these 
words  occur: — "  We  are  told  that  wlien  the  capital  of  the 
East  yielded  to  So/i/man" — It  may  be  presumed  that  this  last 
word  will,  i»  a  future  edition,  be  altered  to  Mahomet  IJ.* 
The  "  ladies  of  Constantinople,"  itseems  at  that  period  spoke 
a  dialect,  "  which  would  not  have  disgraced  the  lips  of  an 
Athenian."  I  do  not  know  how  that  might  be,  b\it  am  sorry 
To  say  the  ladies  in  general  and  the  Athenians  in  particular,  are 
much  altered  ;  being  far  from  choice  either  in  Iheir  dialect  or 
expri-'ssioiis,  as  the  whol ;  Att  ic  race  are  barbarous  to  a  proverb  : 

''  n  A5r;ia  Tr^orri  y^u^ct 

In  Gibbon,  vol.  x.  p.  161,  is  the  lollowing  sentence  : — "  The 
■vulgar  dialect  of  the  city  was  gross  and  barbarous,  though  the 
compositions  of  the  church  and  palace  sometimes  affected  to 
copy  the  purity  of  the  Attic  moilels."  Whatever  may  be  as- 
serted on  the  subject  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  that  the  ladies  of 
Constantinople  in  the  reign  of  the  last  Cffisar,  spoke  a  purer 
dialect  than  Anna  Comnena  wrote  three  centuries  before  :  and 
those  royal  pages  are  not  esteemed  the  best  models  of  compo- 
sition, although  the  princess  yXuTTctv  nym  axpifw?  ArTiKii^aaait 
In  the  Fanal  and  in  Yanina,  the  best  Greek  is  spoken  ;  in  the 
latter  there  is  a  flourishing  school  under  the  direction  of 
Psalida. 

There  is  now  in  Athens  a  pupil  of  Psaliila's,  who  is  making 
a  tour  of  observation  througli  Greece  :    he  is  intelligent,  and 


»  In  a  former  number  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  180S,  it  is 
observed  ;  "  Lord  Byron  passed  some  of  his  early  jears  in 
Scotland,  where  he  might  have  learned  that  pibroch  does  not 
mean  a  bagpipe,  ».ny  more  than  duet  means  iijiddle."  Query 
— Was  it  in  Scotland  that  the  young  genllemen  of  the  Edin- 
burgh Review  learned  that  S'llyman  means  Mahomet  If.  any 
more  than  criticism  means  i)iJuUibiUty  f — but  thus  it  is, 
"  Caedinius  inque  vicem  priebemus  crura  sagittis." 

The  mistake  seemed  so  completely  a  lapse  of  the  pen  (from 
the  great  simitariii/  of  the  two  wovils,  and  the  total  absence  of 
error  from  the  former  pages  of  the  literarv  leviathan)  that  f 
should  have  passed  it  over  as  in  the  text,  had  I  not  perceived 
in  the  Edinburgh  Review  some  facetious  exultation  on  all  such 
detections,  particularly  a  recent  one,  where  words  and  sylb.- 
bles  are  subjects  of  disquisilion  and  transposition  ;  and  the  above 
mention'^d  parallel  passage  in  my  own  case  irresistibly  propelled 
me  to  hint  how  much  easier  it  is  to  be  critical  than  correct. 
The  gentlemen,  having  enjoyed  many  a  triuhiph  on  such  vic- 
tories, will  hardly  begrudge  me  asiiglit  ovation  for  the  prescni. 


CHiLPE  iiAROLn's  piLonniAGr.  273 

belter  eilucati'il  lluin  a  fellow-commoner  of  most  colleges,  I 
metitioti  this  Hsa|>iool  that  the  spirit  of  inquiry  is  not  dormant 
amongst  the  (Greeks, 

Tlie  lleviewer  mentions  Mr.  Wright,  the  author  of  the 
beautiful  poem  "  Hone  loiiicie"  asqunUfiedto  give  details  of 
these  nominal  llomaiis  and  degenerdte  (Greeks,  and  also  of 
their  language:  but  INIr.  VVriglit,  though  a  good  poet  and  an 
able  man,  has  made  a  mistake  where  he  states  the  Albaien  dia- 
lect of  the  llomaic  to  approximote  nearest  to  the  Hellenic- : 
for  the  Albanians  speak  a  iloniaic  as  notoriously  corrupt  as  the 
Scofcii  of  Aberdeenshire,  or  the  Italian  of  Naples.  Yunina, 
(where,  next  to  the  Fanal,  the  Greek  is  purest)  althoua:h  the 
capital  of  Ali  Pacha's  dominions,  is  not  in  Albauia  but  Epirus  : 
and  beyond  Dehinachi  in  Alb-ania  Proper  up  to  Argyrocastro 
and  Tepaleen  ('beyond  wliich  I  did  not  advance)  they  speak 
worse  Greek  than  even  the  ^Uhenians.  I  was  attended  for  a 
year  and  a  half  by  two  of  ISiese  singular  mountaineers,  whose 
motiier  ton'4;iie  is  Illyric,  and  I  never  heard  them  or  their 
coun1ryiii/ii  (wh(nn  I  have  seen,  Jiot  ojily  ut  home,  but  to  the 
amount  of  twenty  thousand  in  t!ie  army  of  Vely  Pacha) 
praised  for  their  Greek,  buiofton  laughesd  at  for  their  provincial 
barbarisms. 

I  have  in  my  possessioa  about  twenty-five  letters,  amongst 
which  some  Ironi  the  Bey  of  Corinth,  written  to  me  by  No- 
taras,  the  Cogia  Bachi,  and  others  by  the  dragoman  of  the 
Calmacam  of  the  INlorea  (which  last  governs  in  Vely  Pacha's 
absence)  are  said  to  be  favorable  specimens  of  their  einstolary 
style.  I  also  received  some  at  Constanlino[de  from  private 
jiersons  written  in  a  most  hyperbolical  st3le,  but  in  the  tnie 
antique  character. 

The  Reviewer  proceeds,  after  some  remarks  on  the  tongir? 
in  its  past  and  present  state,  to  a  paradox  (page  69)  on  (he 
great  n^ischief  the  knowledge  of  his  own  language  has  done 
to  Coray,.  who,  it  seems,  is  less  likely  to  untlerstand  the 
ancient  Greek,  because  he  is  perfect  master  of  the  modern  ! 
This  observation  follows  a  paragraph,  recommending,  in 
explicit  terms,  the  study  of  the  Romaic,  as"  a  povveriul  aux- 
iliary," not  only  to  tlje  traveller  and  foreign  uierchant,  but 
also  to  the  cla>sical  scholar  ;  in  short,  to  every  body  except 
the  only  person  who  can  be  Ihorouglily  ac([Mainted  with  its 
uses  ;  and  by  a  parity  of  reasoning,  our  old  language  is 
conjectured  to  be  probably  more  attainable  by  "  Ibreigners,"' 
than  by  ourselves  !  Nov/  I  am  inclined  to  think,  that  a 
Dutch  Tyro  in  our  tongue  (albeit  himself  of  Saxon  blood) 
would  be  sadly  perplexed  with  "  Sir  Tristrem,"  or  any  other 
given  "  Audiinlech  MS."  with  or  without  a  grannnar  or 
glossary;  and  to  most  apprehensions  it  seems  evident,  that 
none  but  a  native  can  ac(juire  a  competent,  far  less  complete, 
Knowledge  of  our  obselete  idioms.     We  may  give  tiie  critic 


274  XOTES    TO    THE    SECOND    CANTO    OF 

credit  for  his  ina;eiiuify,  liiit  no  more  believe  him  than  we  do 
Smollett's  LisriiahiiiJo,  who  mjiintains  that  the  purest  EnsH-^h 
is  spoken  in  Ediiiburf^h.  That  Coray  may  err  is  very  possible  ; 
but  it  he  does,  the  i'ault  is  in  the  man  ratlier  tiian  in  his  mother 
tongue,  which  is,  as  it  ought  to  be,  of  the  greatest  aid  to  the 
native  student. — Here  the  Reviewer  proceecLs  to  business  on 
Strabo's  translators,  and  here  I  close  my  remarks. 

Sir  VV.  Drummond,  Mr.  Hamilton,  Lord  Aberdeen,  Dr. 
Clarke,  Cai)tain  Leake,  Mr.  Gell,  Mr.  VV^alpole,  and  many 
others  now  in  England,  have  all  the  requisites  to  I'urnish  de- 
tails of  this  fallen  people.  The  few  observations  I  have  offered 
I  should  have  left  where  1  made  them,  had  not  the  article  in 
question,  and  above  all  the  spot  where  I  read  it,  induced  me 
to  advert  to  those  pages  whicii  the  advantage  of  my  present  si- 
tuation enabled  me  to  clear,  or  least  to  make  the  attempt. 

I  have  endeavoured  to  wave  the  personal  leelings,  which 
rise  in  de.spite  of  me  in  touching  upon  any  part  of  the  Edin- 
burgh Review  ;  not  from  a  wish  to  conciliate  tiie  favour  of  its 
writers,  or  to  cancel  the  remembrance  of  a  syllable  I  have 
formerly  published,  but  simply  from  a  sense  of  the  impropriety 
of  mixing  up  private  resentments  with  a  disquisition  of  the 
present  time,  and  more  particularly  at  this  distance  of  time  unil 
place. 


ADDITIONAL  NOTE,  ON  THE  TURK. 

The  difficulties  of  travelling  in  Turkey  have  been  much  ex- 
^afirgerated,  or  rather  have  considerably  diminished  of  late  years. 
The  Mussulmans  have  been  beaten  into  a  kind  of  sullen  civility, 
very  comfortable  to  voyagers. 

It  is  hazardous  to  say  much  on  the  subject  of  Turks  nnil 
Turkey  ;  since  it  is  possible  to  live  amongst  them  twenty 
years  without  ac(£ulring  inlormation,  at  least  from  them- 
selves. As  far  as  my  own  slight  experience  carried  me  I  havfl 
no  complaint  to  make  ;  but  am  indebted  for  many  civilities  (  I 
might  almost  say  friendship)  and  much  hospitalit}-,  to  Ali 
Paclia,  his  son  Veli  Pacha  of  the  Morea,  and  several  others 
of  high  rank  in  tiie  provinces.  Suleyman  Aga,  late  (iover- 
nor  of  Athens,  and  now  of  Thebes,  was  a  ban  vivunt,  and  as 
social  a  being  as  ever  sat  cross-legged  at  a  tray  or  a  table. 
During  tlie  carnival,  when  our  English  party  were  masquera- 
ding, botli  himself  and  his  successor  were  more  happy  to  "  re- 
ceive masks"  than  any  dowager  in  Grosvenor-Square. 

On  one  occasion  of  his  supping  at  the  convent,  his  friend 
and  visitor,  the  Cadi  of  Thebes,  was  carried  from  table  per- 
fectly qualified  for  any  club  in  Christendom  ;  while  the  wor- 
thy Waywode  hinself  triumphed  in  his  fall. 

Ill  all  moiiey  traiisactions  with  the  Moslems,    I  ever  found 


CHiLyiE  Harold's  pilgrimage.  2T5 

;he  strictest  honor,  the  hic^hest  disinterestedness.  In  transacting 
business  with  them,  there  are  none  oC  those  dirty  peculations, 
under  the  name  of  interest,  dill'erence  of  exchange,  com- 
mission, tfec.  <fec.  uniformly  found  in  applying  to  a  Greek 
consul  to  cash  bills,  even  on  the  first  Houses  in  Pera. 

With  regard  to  presents,  an  established  custom  in  the  East, 
you  will  rarely  find  yourself  a  loser  ;  as  one  worth  acceptance 
is  generally  returned  by  another  of  similar  value — a  horse, 
or  a  shawl. 

In  the  capital,  and  at  court,  the  citizens  and  courtiers  are 
formed  in  the  same  school  with  those  of  Christianity;  but 
there  does  not  exist  a  more  honouiable,  friendly,  and  high- 
spirited  character  than  the  true  Turkish  provincial  Aga,  or 
Moslem  country-gentlemen.  It  is  not  meant  here  to  designate 
the  governors  of  towns,  but  those  Agas  who,  by  a  kind  of 
feudal  tenure,  possess  lands  and  houses,  of  more  or  less  extent, 
in  Greece  and  Asia  Minor. 

The  lower  orders  are  in  as  tolerable  discipline  as  the  rabble 
in  countries  with  greater  pretensions  to  civilization.  A  Moslem, 
in  walking  the  streets  of  our  country  towns,  wouKi  be  more 
incommoded  in  England  than  a  Frank  in  a  similar  situation 
m  Turkey.     Regimentals  are  the  best  travelling  dress. 

The  best  accounts  of  the  religion,  and  different   sects    of 
Islamism,  may  be  found  in  D'Olisson's  French  ;  of  the  man- 
ners,  etc.    perhaps  in   Thornton's   English.     The  Ottomans, 
with  all  their  defects,  are  not  a  people  to  be  despised.     Equal, 
at  least,  to  the  Spaniards,  they  are  superior  to  the  Portuguese. 
If  it  be  difficult  to  pronounce  what  they  are,  we  can  at  least  say 
what  they  are  7tot ;    they  are  not  treacherous,  they  are   nut 
cowardly,  they  do  not  burn  heretics,  they  are  not  assassins, 
nor  has  an  enemy  advanced  to  their  capital.    They  are  faithful 
to  their  sultan  till  he  becomes  unfit  to  govern,  and  devout  to 
their  God  without  an  inquisition.      Were  they  driven  from  St. 
Sophia  to-morrow,  and  the  French  or  Russians  ^enthroned  in 
their  stead,    it  would    become    a    question,  whether    Europe 
would  gain   by   the  exchange?     England  would  certainly  be 
the  loser. 

With  regard  to  that  ignorance  of  which  they  are  so  gene- 
rally, sometimes  justly,  accused,  it  may  be  doubled,  always 
excepting  France  and  England,  in  what  useful  points  of 
knowledge  they  are  excelled  by  odier  nations.  Is  it  in  the 
common  arts  of  life  ?  In  their  manufactures  ?  Is  a  Turkish 
sabre  inferior  to  a  Toledo  ?  or  is  a  Turk  worse  clothed  or 
lodged,  or  fed  and  taught,  than  a  Spaniard  ?  Are  their  Puchas 
worse  educated  than  a  Grandee?  or  an  Effendi  than  a  Knight 
of  St.  .Tago?     I  tliiidv  not. 

1  reniembtr  Mahmout,  the  grandson  of  Ali  Pacha,  asking 

whether  my  fellow-lraveller  and  myself  were  in  tlie  upper  or 

ower  House  of  Parliament.    Now  this  question  from  a  boy  of 


276  NOTfS  To  The  second  canto  of 

ten  jcitrs  old  proved  that  his  education  had  not  been  neglected. 
It  niny  he  douiited  if  an  English  boy  at  lliat  age  knows  the 
diti'ereiice  oi  the  nivan  from  a  College  of  Dervises ;  but  I  am 
very  sure  a  Spaniard  does  not.  How  little  Mahmout,  sur- 
roundeil,  as  he  had  been,  entire!}-  iiy  his  Turkish  tutors,  had 
learned  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  a  Parliament  it  were 
useless  to  conjecture,  unless  we  supiiose  that  his  iustiuclors 
did  not  confine  his  studies  to  the  Koran. 

In  all  the  nio.M|ues  there  are  schools  established,  which  are 
very  regularly  attended  ;  and  the  poor  are  taught  without  the 
church  of  Tmkey  being  put  into  peril.     I  believe  the  system 
is  not  yet  [uiuleil  (though  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  Turkish 
press,  and  books  prir^ted  on  tlie  late  military  institution  of  the 
Nizam  Gedidd) ;  nor  have  J  heard  whether  the  Multi  and  the 
Afollas  have  subsciibed,  or  the  Caimacam  <ind  the  Teftedar 
taken  the  alarm,  for  fear  the  ingenuous  youth  of  the  turban 
siiould   be   taught   not  to  "  pray   to  (iod   their  waj."       The 
(ireeks  a!.=o — a  kind  of  Eastern  Irish  papists — have  a  college 
of  their  own  at   Maynooth — no,  at  Haivali  ;  where  the  hete- 
rodox rective  much  the  same  kind  of  countenance  from  the 
Ottoman  as  the  Catholic  college  from  the  English  legislature. 
Who  shall  then  affirm  that  the  Turks  are  ignorant  bigots,  when 
they  thus  evince  the  exact  proportion  of    Christian    charity 
which  is  tolerated  in  the  most  prosperous  and  orthodox  of  all 
possible  kingdoms?      But,  though  they  allow  all  this,  they 
will  not  suller  the  Greeks  to  participate  in  their  privileges  ;  to 
let  them  fight  their  battles,  and  pay  their  haratch  (taxes),  be 
ilrubbed  in  this  world,  and  damned  in  the  next.     And  shall  we 
then  emancipate  our  Irish  Helots  ?      Mahomet  forbid !     We 
should  then  be  bad  Mussulmans,  and  worse  Christians  :  at  pre- 
sent we  unite  the  best  of  both — ^Jesuitical  faith,  and  something 
not  much  inierior  to  Turkish  toleration. 


APPENDIX. 


Amo.nost  an  enslaved  people,  obliged  to  have  recourse  to 
foreign  presses  even  for  their  books  of  religion,  it  is  less  to  be 
woi:(U'u-d  at  that  we  find  so  few  publications  on  general  sub- 
jects than  that  we  lind  any  at  all.  The  whole  number  of  the 
(Irt-eks,  scattered  up  and  down  the  Turkish  empire  and  else- 
whtre,  may  »mount,  at  most,  to  three  millions:  and  yet,  for 
>-o  scanty  a  juimber,  it  is  impossible  to  discover  any  nation 
with  so  great  a  proportion  of  books  and  their  authors,  as  the 


CHILOE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE.  277 

Greeks  of  the  present  century.  "  Ay,"  but  say  the  generous 
advocates  of  oppression,  who,  while  they  assert  the  ignorance 
of  the  Greeks,  wish  to  prevent  them  from  dispelling  it,  "  ay, 
but  these  are  mostly,  if  not  all,  ecclesiastical  tracts,  am! 
consequently  good  for  nothing."  Well !  and  pray  what  else 
«an  they  write  about  ?  It  is  pleasant  enough  to  hear  a  Frank, 
particularly  an  Englishman,  who  may  abuse  the  government 
of  his  own  country  ;  or  a  Frenchman,  who  may  abuse  every 
government  except  his  own,  and  who  may  range  at  will  over 
every  philosophical,  religious,  scientific,  sceptical,  or  moral 
subject,  sneering  at  the  Greek  legends.  A  Greek  must  not 
write  on  politics,  and  cannot  touch  on  science  for  want  of  in- 
struction ;  if  he  doubts,  he  is  excommunicated  and  damned ; 
therefore,  his  countrymen  are  not  poisoned  with  modern  philo- 
sophy ;  and  as  to  morals,  thanks  to  the  I'urks !  there  are  no 
such  things. — What  then  is  left  him,  if  he  has  a  turn  for  scrib- 
bling? Religion  and  holy  biography  ;  and  it  is  natural  enough 
that  those  who  have  so  little  in  this  life  should  look  to  the 
next.  It  is  no  great  wonder  then  thtit  in  a  catalogue  now  before 
me  of  fifty-five  Greek  writers,  many  of  whom  were  lately 
living,  not  above  fifteen  should  have  touched  on  any  thing 
but  religion.  The  catalogue  alluded  to  is  contained  in  the 
twenty-sixth  chapter  of  the  fourth  volume  of  Meletius's  Ec- 
clesiastical History.  From  this  I  subjoin  an  extract  of  those 
who  have  wTitten  on  general  subjects. 

LIST  OF  ROMAIC  AUTHORS.* 

Neophitus,  Diakonos  (the  deacon)  of  the  Morea,  has  pub- 
lished an  extensive  grammar,  and  also  some  political  regulations 
which  last  were  left  unfinished  at  his  death. 

Prokopius,  of  Moscopolis  (a  town  in  Epirus),  has  written 
and  published  a  catalogue  of  the  learned  Greeks. 

Seraphin,  of  Periclea,  is  the  author  of  many  works  in  the 
Turkish  language,  but  Greek  character ;  for  the  Christians 
of  Caramania  who  do  not  speak  Romaic,  but  read  the  cha- 
racter. 

Eustatbius  Psalidas,  of  Bucharest,  a  physician,  made  the 
tour  of  England  for  the  purpose  of  study  (;{«§n'  /i*aS>?a«4i?,) 
but  though  his  name  is  enumerated,  it  is  not  statcnl  that  he  has 
written  any  thing. 


•  It  is  to  be  observed  that  the  names  given  are  not  in  chro- 
nological order,  but  consist  of  some  selected  at  a  venture  from 
amongst  those  who  flourished  from  the  taking  of  Constantino- 
ple to  the  time  of  Miletius. 

2  A 


2T8  NOTES    TO   THE    SECOND    CANTO   OF 

Kallinikus  Torgeraus,  Pntriarch  of  ConstaTitlnople  ;  many 
poems  of  his  are  extant,  and  also  prose  tracts,  and  a  cata- 
logue of  patriarchs  since  the  last  taking  of  Constantinople. 

Anastasius  Macedoii,  of  Naxos,  member  of  the  royal  aca- 
demy of  Warsaw.     A  church  biographer. 

Cemetrius  Pamperesa  Moscopolite,  has  written  many  works 
particularly  "  A  Commentary  on  Hesiod's  Shield  of  Hercules" 
and  two  hundred  tales  (of  what  is  not  specified)  and  has  pub- 
lishetl  his  correspondence  with  the  celebrated  George  of  Tre- 
bizond,  his  cotemporary. 

Meletius,  a  celebrated  geographer ;  and  author  of  the  book 
from  whence  these  notices  are  taken. 

Dorotlieus,  of  JMitylene,  an  Aristotelian  philosopher ;  his 
Hellenic  works  are  in  great  repute,  and  he  is  esteemed  by  the 
modems  (I  quote  the  words  of  Meletius)  )tai  ^era  Tof 
GsKf^Jr/j  ^iK/puvTo,  a^aro(;'EWr,tniiv .  I  add  further,  on  the  au- 
thority of  a  well-informed  Greek,  that  he  was  so  famous 
amongst  his  countrymen,  Ihatthey  were  accustomed  to  say,  if 
Thucydides  and  Xenophon  were  wanting  he  was  capable  of 
repairing  the  loss. 

Marinus  Count  Tharboures,  of  Cephalonia,  professor  of 
ohemistry  in  the  academy  of  Padua,  and  member  of  tliat 
aca*iemy  and  those  of  Stockholm  and  UpsaL  He  has  publisbeil 
at  Venice,  an  account  of  some  marine  animal,  and  a  treatise 
on  the  properties  of  iron. 

Marcus,  brother  to  the  former,  famous  in  mechanic?.— He 
removed  to  St.  Petersburgh  the  immense  rock  on  which  the 
statue  of  Peter  the  Great  was  fixed  in  1769.  Se<i  the  disser- 
tation which  he  published  in  Paris,  1"77. 

George  Constantine  has  published  a  four-tongued  lexicon. 

George  Ventote ;  a  lexicon  in  French,  Italian,  and  Ro- 
maic. 

There  exist  several  other  dictionaries  in  Latin  and  Romaic 
French,  <fec.  besides  grammars,  in  every  modern  language, 
except  English. 

Amongst  the  living  authors  the  following  are  most  cele- 
brated :• — 

Athanasius  Paiios  has  written  a  treatise  on  rhetoric  in  Hel- 
lenic. 

ChrLsto<loulos,  an  Acamanian,  baa  published,  in  Vienna, 
some  physical  treatises  in  Hellenic. 

Panagiote,s  Kodrikas,  an  Athejiian,  the  Romaic  translator 
of  Fontenelle'g  "  Plurality  of  Worlds,"  (a  favorite  work 
amongst  the  Greeks),  is  staled  to  be  a  teacher  of  the  Hellenic 
and  Arabic  languages  in  Paris ;  iu  both  of  which  he  is  an 
adept : 

*  Thes«  names  are  not  taken  from  any  publication. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S   PILGRIMAGE.  279 

Athanasius,  the  Parian,  the  author  of  a  treatise  on  rhetoric. 

V'iccnzfi  Damodiis  of  Cephalonia,  has  written  "  jij  jo 
/itE7e^ag(5a^oy>"  on  logic  and  physics. 

John  Kamarases,  a  B3Zantine,  has  translated  into  French 
Ocellus  on  the  Universe.  He  is  said  to  be  an  excellent  Hel- 
lenist, and  Latin  scholar. 

(>regorio  Demetrius  ])ublished,  in  Vienna,  a  geographical 
work :  he  has  also  translated  several  Italian  authors,  and  prin- 
ted his  versions  at  Venice. 

Of  Coray  and  Psalida  some  account  has  been  already  given. 


280  NOTES   TO   THE    THIRP    CANTO   Or 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  III. 

— »t**99**< — 

(1) 

fn  "pride  of  place"  here  last  the  eagle  flew. 

Stanzji  xviii.  line  6. 
"  Pride  of  place"  is  a  term  of  falconry,  and  means  the  high- 
est pitch  of  nii^lit. — See  M;icbeth,  &c. 

"  An  Eagle  towering  in  his  pride  of  place 
Was  by  a  mousing  Owl  hawked  at  and  "killed." 

(2) 

Such  as  Hannodius  drew  on  Athens'  tyrant  lord. 

Stanza  xx.  line  9. 
See  the  famous  Song  on  Ilarmodius  and  Aristogilon.     The 
best  English  translation   is  in  Bland's  Anthology,    by  Mr. 
Denman. 

"  With  myrtle  my  sword  will  I  wreathe,"  (fee. 

(3) 
And  all  went  merry  us  a  marriage-hell. 

Sianza  xxi.  lino  8. 
On  the  night  previous  to  the  action,  it  is  said  that  a  ball  was 
given  at  Brussels. 

(4<fe5) 
And  Evan's,  Donald's  fame  rings  in  each  clansman's  ears. 

Stanza  xxvi.line  0. 
Sir  Evan  Cameron,  and  his  descendant  Donald,  the  "gentle 
Lochiel"of  the  '<  forty -five." 

(0) 
And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves. 

Stanza  xxvii.  line  1. 
The  wood  of  Soignies  is  supposed  to  be  a  remnant  of  the 
"  forest  of  Ardennes,"  famous  in  Boiardo's  Orlando,  and 
immortal  in  Shakespeare's  "As  you  like  it."  It  is  also 
celebrated  in  Tacitus  as  being  the  spot  of  successful  defence 
by  the  (ieinians  against  the  lloniaii  encroachments.  I  have 
ventured  to  adopt  the  name  connected  with  nobler  associations 
than  those  of  mere  slaughter. 

(7) 
/  turned  from  all  she  brought  to  those  she  could  not  bring. 

Stanza  xxx.  line  9. 

My  guide  from  Mont  St.  Jean  over  the  field  seemed  intelli- 
gent and  accurate.  The  place  where  Major  Howard  fell  was 
not  far  from  two  tall  and  solitary  trees  (there  was  a  third  cut 
down,  or  shivered  in  battle)  which  stands  a  few  yards  from 
each  other  at  a  pathway's  side. — Beneath  these  he  died  and 


CHiLDE  Harold's  pilgrimage.  25] 

was  buried.  The  body  has  since  been  removed  to  England. 
A  small  hollow  for  the  present  marks  where  it  lay,  and  will 
probably  soon  be  effaced ;  the  plough  has  beeji  upon  it,  and 
the  grain  is. 

Alter  pointing  ont  the  different  spots  where  Picton  and  other 
gallant  men  had  perished ;  the  guide  said,  "  here  Major 
Howard  lay  ;  I  was  near  him  when  wounded."  I  told  him  my 
relationship,  and  he  seemed  then  still  more  anxious  to  point 
out  the  particular  spot  and  circumstances.  The  place  is  one 
of  the  most  marked  in  the  field  from  the  peculiarity  of  the  two 
trees  above-mentioned. 

f  went  on  horseback  twice  over  the  field,  comparing  it  with 
my  recollection  of  similar  scenes.  As  a  plain,  Waterloo  seems 
marke^l  out  for  the  scene  of  some  great  action,  though  this 
may  be  mere  imagination  ;  I  have  viewed  with  attention  Ihose 
of  Platea,  Troy,  Mantinea,  Leuctra,  Cha?ronea,  and  Mara- 
thon ;  and  the  field  around  St.  Jean  and  Hougoumont  appears 
to  want  little  but  a  better  cause,  and  that  undefinable  but  im- 
pressive halo  which  the  lapse  of  ages  throws  around  a  cele- 
brated spot,  to  vie  in  interest  with  any  or  all  of  these,  except 
perhaps  tjie  last  mentioned. 

(8) 
LiAe  to  the  apples  on  the  Dead  Sea's  shorC' 

Stanza  xxxiv.  line  6. 

The  (fabled)  apples  on  the  brink  of  the  lake  Asphaltes 
were  said  to  be  fair  without,  and  within  ashes. — Vide  Tacitus, 
Histor.  1.  5.  7. 

(9) 
For  sceptred  cynics  earth  were  far  too  wide  a  den. 

Stanza  xii.  line  last. 

The  great  error  of  Najwleon,  "if  we  have  writ  our  annals 

true,"  was  a  continued  obtrusion  on  mankind  of  his  want  of 

all  community  of  feeling  for  or  with  tliem  ;  perhaps  more  ol- 

-  f-jn'"""*  <o   hiimnn   "z.i'uy    than    the  active  cruelty  of  more 

trembling  and  suspicious  tyranny. 

(10) 
What  wants  these  outlaws  conquerors  should  have. 

Stanza  xlviii.  line  6. 

"  What  wants  that  knave 
That  a  king  should  have  r" 

was  King  James's  question  on  meeting  Johnny  Armstrong  and 
his  followers  In  full  accoutrements.— See  the  I3allad. 

(H) 
The  castled  crag  of  Drachen/els. 

Song,  Stanza  i.  line  1. 
2  A  2 


282  NOTES   TO   THE   THIRD    CANTO   OF 

The  ensile  of  Draclienfels  stands  on  the  highest  summit  of 
"  lh«  Seven  Mountains"  over  the  Rhine  banks  :  it  is  in  ruins, 
and  connected  witli  some  singular  traditions  :  it  is  the  first  in 
view  on  the  road  from  Bonn,  but  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
'  river :  on  this  bank,  nearly  facing  it,  are  the  remains  of 
another  called  the  Jew's  casfle,  and  a  larofe  cross  commem- 
morate  of  the  murder  of  a  chief  by  his  brother:  the  number 
of  castles  and  cities  alou'T  the  course  of  the  Rhine  on  both 
sides  is  very  great,  and  their  situations  remarkably  beautiful. 

(12) 
The  jchilencss  of  his  soul,  and  thus  men  o'er  him  wept' 

Stanza  Ivii.  line  last. 
The  monument  of  the  youn^  and  lamented  General  Mar- 
ceau  (killed   by  a  rifle-ball  at   Alterkirchen  on  the   last  days 
of  the  fourth  year  of  the  French  republic)  still  remains  as 
described. 

Tlie  inscriptions  on  his  monument  are  rather  too  long,  and 
not  required  :  his  name  was  enough  ;  France  adored,  and  her 
enemies  admired  ;  both  wept  over  him.  His  funeral  was  at- 
tended by  the  generals  and  detachments  from  both  armies.  In 
■  the  same  t^rave  General  Ifoche  is  interred,  a  gallant  man  also 
in  every  sense  of  the  word,  but  though  he  distinguished  him- 
self greatly  in  battle,  he  had  not  the  good  fortune  to  die  there  ; 
his  death  was  attended  by  suspicions  of  poison. 

A  separate  monument  (not  over  his  body,  which  is  buried 
by  Marceau's)  is  raised  for  liim  near  Andernash,  opposite  to 
wliich  one  of  his  most  memorable  exploits  was  performed,  in 
throwing  a  bridge  to  an  island  on  the  Rhine.  The  shape  and 
style  are  dill'erent  from  that  of  Marceau's,  and  the  inscription 
more  simple  and  pleasing, 

"  The  Army  of  the  Sambre  and  Meuse 

to  its  Commander  in  Chief 

Hoche." 

This  is  all,  and  as  it  should  be.  Iloche  was  esteemed  among 
the  lirst  of  France's  earlier  generals  before  Bonaparte  mono- 
polizetl  all  her  triumphs.  He  was  the  destined  commander 
of  tlie  invading  army  of  Ireland. 

(13.) 

Here  Ehrenbreitstcin,  with  her  shattered  icnIL 

Stanza  Iviii.  line  1. 

Ehreidireitstein,  i.  e.  "  the  broad  stone  of  Honour,"  one  of 
tlie  sirougest  lortresses  in  Europe,  was  dismantled  and  blown 
\ip  by  the  French  at  the  truce  of  Leoben.  It  had  been  and 
could  oidy  be  reduced  by  f;miine  or  treachery.  It  yielded  to 
the  former,  aided  by  surprise.  After  having  seen  the  fortifi- 
cations of  Gibraltar  and  Malta,  it  did  not  much  strike  by  com- 
parison, but  the  situalion  is  commanding.     Geueral  Marceau 


CHILDE    HAHOLD's    PILGRrMAGE.  283 

besieged  it  in  vain  for  some  time,  and  I  slept  in  a  room  where 
I  wiLs  shown  a  window  iit  wliicli  he  is  said  to  have  been  stand- 
ing observing  the  progress  ot'  the  siege  by  moonlight,  when  a 
ball  struck  immediately  below  it. 

(14.) 

Unsepu[c/ired  they   roamed,    and  shrieked  each  toandering 
ghost. 

Stanza  Ixiii.  line  last. 

The  chapel  is  destroyed,  and  the  pyramid  ot  bones  dimi- 
nished to  a  small  niunber  by  the  Biirgundian  legion  in  the  ser- 
vice of  France,  who  anxiously  ellkced  this  record  of  their 
ancestors'  less  successful  invasions.  A  few  still  remain  not- 
withstanding the  pains  taicen  by  the  Burgundians  for  ages,  (all 
who  passed  that  way  removing  a  bone  to  their  own  country,) 
and  the  less  justifiable  larcenies  of  the  Swiss  postilions,  who 
carried  them  oil"  to  sell  for  knife-handles,  a  purpose  for  which 
the  whiteness  Imbibed  by  the  bleaching  of  years  had  rentlered 
them  in  great  request.  Of  Ihese  relics  1  ventured  to  bring 
away  as  much  as  may  have  made  the  quarter  of  a  hero,  for 
which  the  sole  excuse  is,  that  if  I  had  not,  the  next  passer  by 
might  have  perverted  them  to  worse  uses  than  the  careful  pre- 
servation which  I  intend  tor  them. 

(1.3.) 

Levelled  Aventicum  bath  strewed  her  subject  lands. 

Stanza  Ixv.  line  last. 

Aventicum  (near  Morat)  was  the  Roman  capital   of  Helve- 
tia, where  Aveiiches  now  stands. 

(le.) 

A/Ill  held  within  their  iirii,  one  mind,  one  heart,  one  dust. 

Stanza  Ixvi.  line  last. 
Julia  Alpinula,  a  young  Aventian  priestess,  died   soon  after 
a  vain  endeavour  to  save  her  father,  condemned  to  death  as  a 
traitor  by  Auhis  Carina.     Her  epitaph  was  discovered  many 
years  ago  ; — it  is  thus— 

Julia  Alpinula 
Hie  jaceo 
Infelicis  palris,  infelix  proles 
])e;B  AventiiP  SaCfirdos  ; 
Exorare  patris  necem  non  potui 
Atale  mori  in  fatis  ille  erat. 
Vixi  annosXXni. 
I  know  of  no  human  composition  so  atrecting  as  this,  nor  a 
liisloryoideciiei  interest.  These  are  the  names  and  actions  which 
ought  not  to  iieiUii,  and  to  wliich   we  turn  witii  a  true  and 
healthy  tenderness,  from  the  wretched  and  glittering  detail  of 


184  NOTES    TO    THE    THIRD    CANTO    OP 

a  confused  mass  of  conquests  and  battles,  with  which  the  mind 
is  roused  for  a  time  to  a  false  and  feverish  sympathy,  from 
whence  it  recurs  at  length  with  all  the  nausea  consequent  on 
such  intoxication. 

(17) 
In  the  sun's  face,  like  yonder  Alpine  snow. 

Stanza  Ixvii.  line  8. 
This  is  written  in  the  eye  of  Mont  Blanc  (June  3d,  1816) 
which  even  in  tliis  distance  dazzles  mine. 

(July  20ili.)  I  this  day  observed  for  some  time  the  distinct 
reflection  of  Mont  Blanc  and  Mont  Argentiere  in  the  calm 
of  the  lake,  which  I  was  crossing  in  my  boat  \  the  distance  of 
these  mountains  from  their  mirror  is  60  miles. 

(18) 
By  the  Hue  rushing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone. 

Stanza  Ixxi.  line  3. 

The  colour  of  the  Rhone  at  Geneva  is  bine,  to  a  depth  of 
tint  which  I  have  never  seen  equalled  in  water,  salt  or  fresh, 
except  in  tiie  Mediterranean  and  Archipelago. 

(19) 
Than  vulgar  minds  may  le  with  all  they  seek  possest. 

Stanza  Ixxix.  line  last. 

This  refers  to  the  account  in  his  "  Confessions"  of  his 
passion  for  the  Countesse  d'Houdetot  (the  mistress  of  St. 
Lambert)  and  his  long  walk  every  morning  for  the  sake  of  the 
single  kiss  which  was  the  common  salutation  of  French  ac- 
quaintance.— Rousseau's  description  of  his  feelings  on  that 
occasion  may  be  considered  as  the  most  passionate,  yet  not 
impure  description  and  expression  of  love  that  ever  kindled 
into  words  ;  which  after  all  must  be  felt,  from  their  very  force, 
to  be  inadequate  to  the  delineation :  a  painting  can  give  no 
sufficient  idea  of  the  ocean. 

(20) 
Of  earth  o'er-gazing  tnountains,  and  thus  take. 

Stanza  xci.  line  3. 

It  is  to  be  recollected,  that  the  most  beautiful  and  impres- 
sive doctrines  of  the  divine  Founder  of  Ciiristianity  were 
delivered,  not  in  the  Temple^  but  on  the  Mount. 

To  wave  the  question  of  devotion,  and  turn  to  human  elo- 
quejice — the  most  etlectual  and  splendid  specimens  were  not 
pronounced  witiiin  walls.  Demosthenes  addressed  the  public 
and  populiir  assemblies.  Cicero  spoke  in  the  forum.  That 
this  added  to  their  effect  on  the  mind  of  botli  orator  and  hea- 
rers, may  be  conceived  Irom  the  diU'erence  between  what  we 
read  of  the  emotions  then  and  there  produced,  and  those  we 
ourselves  experience  in  tiie  perusal  in  tiie  closet.  It  is  one 
thing  to  read  the  Iliad  at  Sigteum  and  on  the  tumuli,  or  by  the 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S   PltGRIMAGE.  2^6 

spring  with  mount  Ii!a  iibove,  and  the  plain  and  rivers  and 
Archipelago  around  you  :  and  another  to  trim  your  taper 
over  it  in  a  snug  library — this  I  know. 

VVere  the  early  and  rapid  progress  of  what  is  called  Method- 
ism to  be  attributed  to  any  cause  beyond  the  enthusiasm  ex- 
cited by  its  vehement  faith  and  doctrines  (the  truth  or  error 
of  which  I  presume  neither  to  canvass  nor  to  question)  I 
should  venture  to  ascribe  it  lo  the  practice  of  preaching  in  the 
fields,  and  the  unstudied  and  extemporaneous  etfiisioas  of  its 
,  teachers. 

The  Mussulmans,  wliose  erroneous  devotion  (at  least  in  the 
lower  orders)  is  most  sincere  and  therefore  impressive,  are 
accustomed  to  repeat  their  prescribed  orisons  and  prayers 
wherever  they  may  be  at  the  stated  hours — oi  course  frequent- 
ly in  the  open  air,  kneeling  upon  a  light  mat  (which  they 
carry  for  the  purpose  of  a  bed  or  cushion  ;is  required) ;  the 
C(n'emony  lasts  some  miinites,  during  which  they  are  totally 
absorbed,  and  only  living  in  their  supplication;—  nothing  can 
disturb  them.  On  me  the  simple  and  entire  sincerity  of  these 
men,  and  the  spirit  which  jqipeared  to  be  within  and  upon 
them,  made  a  far  greater  impression  than  any  general  rite 
which  was  ever  performed  in  places  of  worship,  of  which  I 
have  seen  those  of  almost  every  persuasion  under  the  sun  : 
including  most  of  our  own  sectaries,  and  the  Greek,  the  Catholic 
the  Armenian,  the  Lutheran,  the  Jewish,  and  the  Mahometan- 
Many  of  the  negroes,  of  whom  there  are  numbers  in  the 
Turkish  empire,  are  idolaters,  and  have  free  exercise  of  their 
i)elief  and  its  rites :  some  of  these  I  had  a  distiint  viev^  of  at 
Pntras,  and  from  svhat  I  could  make  out  of  them,  they  appeared 
to  be  of  a  truly  Pagan  description,  and  not  very  agreeable  to 
a  spectator. 

(21) 
The  sky  is  changed ! — and  such  a  change  i   Ok  night. 

Stanza  xcii.  line  1. 
The  thundef-storms  to  which  these  lines  refer  occurred  on 
the  13th  of  June,  181(5,  at  midnight.     I  have  seen  among  the 
Acrocennmian  mountains  of  Chimari  several   more  terrible, 
but  none  more  beautiful. 

(22)' 
And  sun-set  into  rose-hues  sees  them  xuronght. 

Stanza  xcix.  line  5. 
Rousseau's  Heloise,  lettre  7,  part  4,  note.  "  Ces  montagnes 
sont  si  hautes  qu'une  demi-lieure  apres  le  soleil  couche,  leurs 
sonimets  sont  encore  eclaires  de  ses  rayons :  dont  le  rouge 
forme  sur  ces  cimes  blanches  une  belle  couleur  de  rose,  qu'on 
apper?oit  de  I'ort  loin." 

In  July,  1810,  I  m;ide  a  voyage  round  the  lake  of  Geneva  ; 
and  as  far  ;is  my  own  oijservatioiis  have  led  me  in  a  not  unin- 
terested or  inattentive  survey  of  all  the  scenes  most  celebrated 


286  NOTES  TO  THE  THIRD  CANTO  OF 

hy  Rousseau  in  his  "  Ileloise,"  I  can  safely  say  that  in  this 
there  is  no  exiiggeration.  It  would  be  difficult  to  see  Clarens 
(with  the  scenes  around  it,  Vevay,  Chillon,  Bdveret,  St.  Gingo, 
Aleillerie,  Eivan,  and  the  entrances  of  the  Rhone),  without 
being  forcibly  struck  with  its  peculiar  adaptation  to  the  persons 
and  events  with  which  it  has  been  peopled.  But  this  is  not 
all ;  the  feeling  with  which  all  around  Clarens,  and  the  oppo- 
site rocks  of  Meillerie,  is  infested,  is  of  a  still  higher  and 
more  comprehensive  order  than  the  mere  sympathy  with  indi- 
vidual passion  ;  it  is  a  sense  of  the  existence  of  love  in  its  most 
extended  and  sublime  capacity,  and  of  our  own  participation 
of  its  good  and  of  its  glory ;  it  is  the  great  principle  of  the 
universe,  which  is  there  more  condensed,  but  not  less  mani- 
fested ;  and  of  which,  though  knowing  ourselves  a  part,  we 
lose  our  individuality,  and  mingle  in  the  beauty  of  the  whole. 

If  Rousseau  had  never  written  nor  lived,  the  same  associa- 
tions would  not  less  have  belonged  to  such  scenes.  He  has 
added  to  the  interest  of  his  works  by  their  adoption  ;  be  has 
shewn  his  sense  of  their  beauty  by  the  selection  ;  but  they  have 
done  that  for  him  which  no  human  being  could  do  for  them. 

1  had  the  fortune  (good  or  evil  as  it  might  be)  to  sail  from 
Meillerie  (where  we  landed  for  some  time)  to  St.  Gingo  du- 
ring a  lake  storm,  which  addei  to  the  magnificence  of  all 
around,  although  occasionally  accompanied  by  danger  to  the 
boat,  which  was  small  and  overloaded.  It  was  over  this  very 
part  of  the  lake  that  Rousseau  has  driven  the  boat  of  St.  Preux 
and  Madame  VV^olmar  to  Meillerie  for  shelter  during  a  tempest. 
On  gaining  the  shore  at  St.  Gingo,  I  found  that  the  wind  had 
been  sufficiently  strong  to  blow  down  some  fine  old  chesnut 
trees  on  the  lower  part  of  the  mountains. 

On  the  opposite  height  of  Clarens  is  a  chateau.  The  hills 
are  covered  with  vineyards,  and  interspersed  with  some  small 
but  beautiful  woods  ;  one  of  these  was  named  the  "  Bosquet 
<le  Julie,"  and  it  is  remarkable,  that  though  long  ago  cut  down 
hy  the  brutal  selfishness  of  the  monks  of  St.  Bernard,  to  whom 
the  lanil  appertained,  that  the  ground  might  be  enclosed  into 
a  vineyard  by  the  miserable  drones  of  an  execrable  superstition, 
the  inhabitants  of  Clarens  still  point  out  the  spot  where  its 
trees  stood,  calling  it  by  the  name  which  consecrated  and  sur- 
vived them. 

Rousseau  has  not  been  particularly  fortunate  in  the  preserva- 
tion of  the  "  local  habitations"  he  has  given  to  "  airj'  nothings." 
The  Prior  of  Great  St.  Bernard  has  cut  down  some  of  his  woods 
for  the  sake  of  a  few  casks  of  wine,  and  Buonaparte  has  le- 
velled part  of  the  rocks  of  Meillerie  in  improving  the  road  to 
the  Simplon.  The  road  is  an  excellent  one,  but  I  cannot  quite 
agree  with  a  remark  which  I  heard  made,  that  "  La  route  vaut 
mieux  que  les  souvenirs." 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PITGRIMA6E.  287 

(23) 

Lausanne !  and  Femey  !  ye  have  been  the  abodes 

Stanza  cv.  line  1 . 
Voltaire  and  Gibbon. 

(24) 
Had  I  not  filed  my  mind,  which  this  itself  subdued. 

Stanza  cxiii.  line  last. 

"  If  it  be  thus, 

For  Banquo's  issue  have  I  filed  my  mind." 

Macbeth. 
(25) 
O'er  others'  griefs  that  sonie  sincerely  grieve. 

Stanza  cxiv.  line  7. 
It  is  said  by  Rochefoucault  that  "  there  is  always  something 
in  the  misfortunes  of  men's  best  friends  not  displeasing  to 
them." 


atibei'tisemtnt  to  ti)t  0iaom\ 


*►•••<«•— 


Thk  tale  which  these  disjoined  fragments  present,  is  founded 
ii|)on  circumstances  now  less  common  in  the-  East  than  former- 
ly ;  either  because  the  ladies  are  more  circumspect  than  in  the 
"  olden  time"  or  because  the  Christians  have  better  fortune,  or 
less  enterprize.  The  story,  when  entire,  contained  the  ad- 
ventures of  a  female  slave,  who  was  thrown,  in  the  Mussulman 
manner,  into  the  sea  for  infidelity,  and  avenged  by  a  young 
Venetian,  her  lover,  at  the  time  the  Seven  Islands  were  [as- 
sessed by  the  republic  of  Venice,  and  soon  after  the  Arnaouts 
were  beaten  back  from  the  Morea  which  they  had  ravaged  for 
some  time  subsequent  to  the  Russian  invasion.  The  desertion 
of  the  Mainotes,  on  being  rei'used  the  plunder  of  Misitra,  led 
to  the  abandonment  of  the  enterprise,  and  to  the  desolation  of 
the  Morea,  during  which  the  cruelty  exercised  on  all  sides 
was  unparalleled  even  in  the  annals  of  the  faithful. 


2    B 


TO 

SAMUEL  ROGERS,    ESQ. 

AS     A    SLIGHT    BUT    MOST    SINCEIIE   TOKEN 

OF   ADMIRATION'   OF    HIS    GENIUS  : 

RESPECT    FOR    HIS    CHARACTER, 

AND    (iRATITUDE    FOR    HIS    FRIENDSHIP: 

THIS   PRODUCTION   IS    INSCRIBED    BY 

HIS   OBLIGED    AND    AFFECTIONATE    SERVANT, 


BYRON. 


iR^c  ^iaonvx 


A    FRAGMENT  OP    A    TURKISH   TALE. 


— »>^«»»*«»— 


One  fatal  remembrance— one  soivow  that  throws 
Its  bleak  shade  alike  o*et'  mtr  joys  andnnr  wi}c^= 
To  which  Life  nothing  darker  nor  Irighter  mn  bt'ing, 
For  which  Jo^j  huth  no  buliu,  and  Affliction  no  ding. 


MOORB. 


No  breath  of  air  to  brtjak  tlig  wave 
That  roU«  beneath  the  Atheninn'g  grave, 
That  tomb  (1)  which,  Rleamins  o'er  the  cliff, 
First  greets  the  homeward-veerino;  skilf, 
High  o'er  the  land  he  saved  in  vain— 
When  shall  such  hero  live  again  ? 


Fair  clime  !  where  every  season  smiles 
Benignant  o'er  those  blessed  isles, 
Which  seen  from  far  Colonna's  height. 
Make  ?laJ  the  heart  that  hails  the  sight. 
And  lend  to  loneliness  delight. 
There  mildly  dimpling— Ocean's  cheek 
Reflects  the  tints  of  many  a  jieak 
Caught  by  the  laughing  tides  that  lave 
These  Edens  of  the  eastern  wave  : 
And  if  at  times  the  transient  breeze 
Break  the  blue  crystal  of  the  seas, 
Or  sweep  one  blossom  from  the  trees, 
How  welcome  is  each  gentle  air. 
That  wakes  and  wafts  the  odours  there  I 
For  there — the  Hose  o'er  crag  or  vale, 
Sultana  of  the  Nightingale,  (2) 


2«I2  THE  r.[Aori{. 

Tho  m:ii(l  lor  wliom  liis  nii'lnciy — 
His  thousand  songs  are  heard  on  higii, 
Blooms  blushingto  her  lover's  tale; 
His  queen,  the  garden  queen,  his  Rose, 
Unbent  by  winds,  unchill'd  by  snows, 
Far  iVoni  thewinlcrsol  the  west 
]?y  every  breeze  and  season  blest. 
Returns  the  sweets  by  nature  given 
In  soltest  incense  back  to  heaven  ; 
.\nd  grateful  yieldsthat  sniiliiigsky 
i  Jer  lairesl  hue  and  fragrant  sigh. 
And  many  a  summer  Hower  is  there, 
And  many  a  shade  that  love  might  share. 
And  many  a  grotto,  meant  for  rest. 
That  holds  the  pirate  lor  a  guest; 
Whose  bark  in  sheltering  cove  below 
Luvks  J'or  the  passing  peaceful  prow, 
'1  ill  i  he  gay  niaiiner's  guitar  (3) 
Is  heard,  and  seen  the  evening  star  ; 
Then  stealing  with  the  muffled  oar, 
I'arshaded  by  the  rocky  shore. 
Rush  the  night-prowlers  on  the  prey, 
And  turn  to  groans  his  roundelay. 
Strange— that  where  Nature  lov'd  to  trace, 
As  if  lor  Gods  a  dwelling  place, 
And  every  charm  and  grace  hath  mixed 
Within  the  paradise  she  fixed — 
There  man  enamour'd  of  distress, 
Should  mar  it  into  wilderness, 
And  trample,  brute-like,  o'er  each  flower 
That  tasks  not  one  laborious  hour  ; 
Nor  claims  the  culture  of  his  hand 
To  bloom  along  the  fairy  land. 
But  springs  as  to  preclude  his  care, 
And  sweetly  woos  him — but  to  spare  ! 
Strange  that  where  all  is  peace  beside. 
There  passion  riots  in  her  pride, 
And  lust  and  rapine  wildly  reign 
To  darken  o'er  the  lair  domain. 
It  is  as  though  the  fiends  prevail'd 
Against  the  seraphs  they  assail'd. 
And  fixed  on  heavenly  thrones,  should  dwell 
The  freed  inheritors  of  hell — 
So  soft  the  scene,  so  form'd  for  joy, 
So  curst  the  tyrants  that  destroy  ! 

He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead, 
Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled  ; 
The  first  dark  day  of  nothingness, 
The  last  of  danger  and  distress ; 


THE  GIAOUR.  2«3 

(Before  Decay's  effacing  fingprs  y 

Have  swept  the  lines  wliere  lle^ulj'  lingers,)  ^t-re>^ 

And  marked  the  mild  angelic  air, — 

The  rapture  of  repose  that's  there  — 

The  fixed  yet  tender  traits  that  streak, 

The  languor  of  that  placid  cheek, 

And — but  for  that  sad  shrouded  eye, 

That  fires  not — wins  not — weeps  not — now — 

And  but  for  that  chill  changeless  brow. 

Where  cold  Obstruction's  apathy  (4) 

Appals  the  gazing  mourner's  heart. 

As  if  to  him  it  could  impart 

The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon — 

"^'es — but  ibr  these  and  these  alone. 

Some  moments — aj'e —  one  treacherous  hour. 

He  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant's  power. 

So  fair — so  calm  —so  softlj^  seal'd 

The  first — last  look — by  death  reveal'd  (5) 

Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore — 

'Tis  Greece — but  living  Greece  no  more  I 

So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair, 

We  start-   for  soul  is  wanting  there. 

Here  is  the  loveliness  in  death. 

That  parts  not  quite  with  with  parting  breath; 

But  beauty  wiih  that  fearful  bloom. 

That  hue  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb — 

Expression's  last  receding  ray,  /  z^'' 

A  gilded  halo  hovering  round  decay,   *7A^M^^-^^^*^'^r.      ' 
Spark  of  that  flame — perchance  of  heavenly  birth —  ^*^^j 

Which  gleams — bnt  warms  no  more  its  cherish'd  earth  ! 

Clime  of  the  unforgotten  brave  ! 
Whose  land  irom  plain  to  mountain-cave 
Was  Freedom's  home  or  Glory's  grave — 
Shrine  of  the  mighty!   can  it  be 
That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee  ! 
Approach  thou  craven  crouching  slave — 
Say,  is  not  this  Thermopylae  ? 
These  waters  blue  that  round  you  lave 
Oh  servile  ollspring  of  the  free — 
Pronounce  what  sea,  what  shore  is  this  ? 
The  gulf,  the  rock  of  Salamis! 
These  scenes — their  story  not  unknown — 
Arise,  and  make  again  your  own; 
Snatch  from  the  ashes  of  your  sires 
The  embers  of  your  former  fires, 
And  he  who  in  the  strife  expires 
Will  add  to  theirs  a  name  oi  fear, 
That  Tyranny  shall  quake  to  hear, 
2  B  2 


•284  THE  GIAOUR. 

And  leave  his  sons  a  hope,  a  fame, 
Tliey  too  will  rather  die  than  shame  ; 
For  Freedom's  b;ittle  once  bepjun, 
IJequealiifd  by  bleeding  Sire  to  Son, 
Thoufib  liallled  otl  is  ever  won. 
Uear  witness,  Greece,  thy  living  page. 
Attest  it  many  a  deathless  age  ! 
AViiile  kinsfs  in  dusty  darkness  hid. 
Have  left  a  nameless  pyramid, 
Thy  heroes— though  the  general  doom 
Hath  swept  the  column  irom  the  tomb, 
A  mightier  monument  command, 
Tlie  mountains  of  their  native  land  ! 
There  points  thy  muse  to  stranger's  eye, 
Tbe  graves  of  those  that  cannot  die  !   ^ 
'Twere  long  to  tell,  and  sad  to  trace. 
Each  step  Iroui  splendour  to  disgrace, 
Enough — no  foreign  foe  could  quell 
Thy  soul,  till  from  itself  it  fell. 
And  self-abasement  pav'd  the  way 
To  villain-bonds  and  despot-sway. 

What  can  he  tell  who  treads  thy  shore  ? 

No  legend  of  thine  olden  time, 
No  theme  on  which  the  muse  might  soar, 
High  as  tliine  own  in  days  of  yore^ 

When  man  was  worthy  of  thy  clime. 
The  hearts  within  thy  valleys  bred, 
The  fiery  souls  that  might  have  led 

Thy  sons  to  deeds  sublime  ; 
Now   crawl  from  cradle  to  the  grave, 
Slaves— nay  the  boudsmen  of  a  slave,  (6) 

And  callous,  save  to  crime  ; 
Stained  with  each  evil  which  pollutes 
Mankind,  where  least  above  the  brutes; 
Without  even  savage  virtue  blest, 
Without  one  free  or  valiant  breast. 
Still  to  the  neighbouring  ports  they  waft 
Proverbial  wiles,  and  ancient  craft. 
In  this  the  subtle  Greek  is  found. 
For  this,  and  this  alone,  renown'd. 
In  vain  might  Liberty  invoke 
'I'he  spirit  to  its  bondage  broke. 
Or  raise  the  neck  that  courts  the  3oke : 
No  more  her  sorrow  I  bewail, 
Yet  this  will  be  a  mournful  tale. 
And  Ihev  who  listen  may  believe, 
Who  heard  it  first  had  cause  to  grieve. 


THE  GIAOUR.  295 

Far,  dark,  along  the  blue  sea  glancing, 
The  shadows  of  the  rock  advancing, 
Start  on  the  fisher's  eye  like  boat 
Of  island-pirate  or  Mainote ; 
And  fearful  for  his  light  caique 
He  shuns  the  near  but  doubtful  creek. 
Though  worn  and  weary  with  his  toil. 
And  cuniber'd  with  his  scaly  spoil, 
Slowly,  yet  strongly,  plies  the  oar. 
Till  Port  Leone's  safer  shore 
Receives  him  by  the  lovely  light 
That  best  becomes  an  Eastern  night. 


Who  thundering  comes  on  blackest  steed  ? 
With  slacken'd  bit  and  hoof  of  speed. 
Beneath  the  clattering  iron's  sound 
The  cavern'd  echoes  wake  around 
In  lash  for  lash,  and  bound  for  bound  ; 
The  foam  that  streaks  the  courser's  side, 
Seems  gather'd  from  the  ocean-tide : 
And  though  to-morrow's  tempest  lower, 
'Tis  calmer  than  thy  heart,  young  Giaour!   (T) 
I  know  thee  not,  I  loath  thy  race, 
But  in  thy  lineaments  T  trace 
What  time  shall  strengthen,  not  eftace  ; 
Though  young  and  pale,  that  sallow  front 
Is  scath'd  by  fiery  passion's  brunt, 
Though  bent  on  earth  thine  evil  eye 
As  meteor-like  thou  glidest  by, 
Right  well  I  view,  and  deem  thee  one 
Whom  Othman's  sons  should  slay  or  shun. 

On^on  he  hastened — and  he  drew 
My  gaze  of  wonder  as  he  fiew  : 
Thougli  like  a  demon  of  the  night 
He  pxssed  and  vanished  from  my  sight ; 
His  aspect  and  his  air  impressed 
A  troubled  memoiy  on  my  breast ; 
And  long  upon  my  startled  ear 
Rung  his  dark  courser's  hoofs  of  fear. 
He  spurs  his  steed — he  nears  the  steep — 
That  jutting  shadows  o'er  the  deep — 
He  winds  around — he  hurries  by — 
The  rock  relieves  him  from  mii\e  eye— 
For  well  1  ween  unwelcome  lie 
Whose  glance  is  fixed  on  those  that  flee  ; 
And  not  a  star  but  sliines  too  bright 
On  him  v.ho  takes  such  timeless  flight. 


29tf  THE  GIAOUR. 

He  wound  along — but  ere  be  passed 

One  glance  he  snatched — as  If  his  last, 

A  moment  checked  his  wheeling  steed — 

A  moment  breathed  him  from  his  speed — 

A  moment  on  his  stirrup  stood — 

Why  looks  he  o'er  the  olive  wood  ? — 

The  crescent  glimmers  on  the  hill, 

The  Mosque's  high  lamps  are  quivering  still ; 

Though  too  remote  for  sound  to  wake 

In  echoes  of  the  far  tophaike,  (8) 

The  flashes  of  each  jojous  peal 

Are  seen  to  prove  the  Moslem's  zeal. 

To-night — set  Rhamazani's  sun — 

To-night  —the  Bairam  feast's  begun — 

To-night — but  who  and  what  art  thou 

Of  foreign  garb  and  fearful  brow  ? 

And  what  are  these  to  thine  or  thee, 

That  thou  should'st  either  pause  or  flee  ? 

He  stood — some  dread  was  on  his  face — 

Soon  Hatred  settled  in  its  place — 

It  rose  not  with  the  reddening  flush 

Of  transient  Anger's  darkening  blush, 

But  pale  as  marble  o'er  the  tomb, 

Whose  ghastly  whiteness  aids  its  gloom. 

His  brow  was  bent — his  eye  was  glazed — 

He  raised  his  arm,  and  fiercely  raised  ; 

And  sternly  shook  his  hand  on  high, 

As  doubting  to  return  or  fly  ; — 

Impatient  of  his  flight  delayed. 

Here  loud  his  raven  charger  neighed — 

Down  glanced  that  hand,  and  grasped  his  bladi 

That  sound  had  burst  his  waking  dream, 

As  Slumber  starts  at  owlet's  scream. — 

The  spur  hath  lanced  his  courser's  sides — 

Away — away — for  life  he  ritles  — 

Swift  as  the  hurled  on  high  jerreed,  (9)  - 

Springs  to  the  touch  his  startled  steed. 

The  rock  is  doubled — and  the  shore 

Shakes  with  the  clattering  tramp  no  more — 

The  crag  is  won — no  more  is  seen 

His  Christian  crest  and  haughty  mien. — 

'Twas  but  an  instant — though  so  long 

When  thus  dilated  in  my  song — 

'Twas  but  an  instant  that  he  stood, 

Then  sped  as  if  by  death  pursued  ; 

But  in  that  instant,  o'er  his  soul 

Winters  of  Memory  seem'd  to  roll ; 

And  gather  in  that  drop  of  time 

A  life  of  pain,  an  age  of  crime. 


THE  GIAOUR.  -"J" 

O'er  him  who  loves,  or  hnfes,  or  Tears 
Such  moment  pours  the  ij;rief  of  years — 
■\Vhat  felt  he  tlien— at  once  opprest 
By  all  that  most  distracts  the  breast? 
That  pause— which  pondered  o'er  his  fate, 

Oh,  who  its  dreary  length  shall  date  ! 

Though  in  Time's  record  nearly  nought, 

It  was  Eternity  to  Thought ! 

For  infinite  as  boundless  space 

The  thought  that  Conscience  must  embrace. 

Which  in  itself  can  comprehend 

Woe  without  name — or  hope — or  end. — 
The  hour  is  past,  the  Giaour  is  gone, 

And   did  he  fly  or  fall  alone  ? 

Woe  to  that  hour  he  came  or  went, 

The  curse  of  Hassan's  sin  was  sent 

To  turn  a  palace  to  a  tomb  ; 

He  came,  he  went,  like  the  Simoom  (10) 

That  harbinger  of  fate  and  gloom. 

Beneath  whose  widely- wasting  breath 

The  very  cypress  droops  to  death — 
Dark  tree— .still  sad,  when  others'  grief  is  fled, 
The  only  constant  mourner  o'er  the  dead  ! 
The  steed  is  vanished  from  the  stall 

No  serf  is  seen  in  Hassan's  hall ; 

The  lonely  Spider's  thin  grey  pall 

Waves  slowly  widening  o'er  the  wall ; 

The  Bat  builds  in  his  Haram  bower ; 

And  in  the  fortress  of  his  power 

The  Owl  usurps  the  beacon-tower; 

The  wild-dog  howls  o'er  the  fountain's  brim. 

With  baffled  thirst,  and  hunger,  grim. 

For  the  stream  hiis  shrunk  from  its  marble  bed. 

Where  the  weeds  and  the  desolate  dust  are  spread- 

'Twas  sweet  of  yore  to  see  it  play 

And  chase  the  sultriness  of  diay — 

As  springing  high  the  silver  dew 

In  whirls  fantastically  flew. 

And  flung  luxurious  coolness  round 

The  air,  and  verdure  o'er  the  ground.— 

'Twas  sweet,  when  cloudless  stars  were  bright, 

To  view  the  wave  of  watery  light, 
And  hear  its  melody  by  night. — 

And  oft  had  Hassan's  Childhood  played 

Around  the  verge  of  that  cascade  ; 

And  oft  had  Hassan's  Youth  along 

It's  bank  been  sootluid  by  beauty's  song; 

And  softer  seemed  each  melting  tone 

Of  Music  mingled  with  its  own. — 


298  THE  GIAOUR. 

But  ne'er  shall  Hassan's  Age  repose 
Along  the  brink  at  Twilight's  close — 
The  stream  that  filled  that  font  is  fled— 
The  blood  that  warmed  his  heart  is  shed ! — 
And  here  no  more  shall  human  voice 
Be  heard  to  rage — regret — rejoice — 
The  last  sad  note  that  swelled  the  gale 
Was  woman's  wildest  funeral  wail — 
That  quenched  in  silence — all  is  still, 
But  the  lattice  that  flaps  when  the  wind  is  shrill- 
Though  raves  the  gust,  and  floods  the  rain, 
No  hand  shall  close  its  clasp  again. 
On  desart  sands  'twere  joy  to  scan, 
The  rudest  steps  of  fellow  man. 
So  here  the  very  voice  of  Grief 
Might  w'ake  an  Echo  like  relief — 
At  least  'twould  say,  "  all  are  not  gone  ; 
"  There  lingers  Lile,  though  but  in  one"— 
For  many  a  gilded  chamber's  there, 
Unmeet  for  solitude  to  share ; 
Within  that  dome  as  yet  Decay 
Hath  slowly  worked  her  cankering  way— 
But  gloom  is  gathered  o'er  the  gate, 
Nor  there  the  Fakir's  self  will  wait  ; 
Nor  there  will  wandering  Dervise  stay. 
For  Bounty  cheers  not  his  delay  : 
Nor  there  will  weary  stranger  halt 
To  share  the  sacred  "bread  and  salt."  (11) 
Alike  must  VVealth  and  Poverty 
Pass  heedless  and  unheeded  by, 
For  Courtesy  and  Pity  died 
With  Hassan  on  the  mountain  side. — 
His  roof — that  refuge  unto  men — 
Is  Desolation's  hungry  den. — 
The  guest  flies  the  hall,  and  the  vassal  from  labour 
'    Since  his  turban  was  cleft  by  the  infidel's  sabre  !   (12) 


I  hear  the  sound  of  coming  feet, 
But  not  a  voice  mine  ear  to  greet — 
More  near — each  turban  I  can  scan. 
And  silver- sheathed  ataghan ;  (13) 
The  foremost  of  the  band  is  seen 
An  Emir  by  his  garb  of  green  :  (H) 
"  Ho  !  who  art  thou  ?— this  low  salam  (15) 
"  Replies  of  Moslem  faith  I  am. 
"  The  burthen  ye  so  gently  bear, 
"  Seems  one  that  claims  your  utmost  care, 


THE  GIAOUR.  299 

"  And,  doubtless,  holds  some  precious  freight, 
"  My  humble  bark  would  gladly  wait. 

"  Thou  speakest  sooth,  tby  skiff  unmoor, 
"  And  waft  us  from  the  silent  shore  ; 
•'  Nay,  leave  the  sail  still  furl'd,  and  ply 
"  The  nearest  oar  that's  scatter'd  by, 
"  And  midway  to  those  rocks  where  sleep 
"  The  channell'd  waters  dark  and  deep — 
"  Rest  from  your  task— so— bravely  done,. 
"  Our  course  has  been  right  swiftly  run. 
"  Yet  'tis  the  longest  voyage,  I  trow, 
"  That  one  of— 
•  •  •  • 

Sullen  It  plunged,  and  slowly  sank. 
The  calm  was  rippled  to  the  bank  ; 
I  watch'd  it  as  it  sank,  methought 
Some  motion  from  the  current  caught 
Bestirr'd  it  more,— 'twas  but  the  beam 
That  checquer'd  o'er  the  living  stream — 
I  gazed,  still  vanishing  from  view. 
Like  lessening  pebble  U  withdrew ; 
Still  less  and  less  a  speck  of  white 
That  gemm'd  the  tide,  then  mock'd  the  sight ; 
And  all  its  hidden  secrets  sleep. 
Known  but  to  Genii  of  the  deep. 
Which  trembling  in  their  coral  caves. 
They  dare  not  whisper  to  the  waves. 


As  rising  on  its  purple  wing 
The  insect-queen  (16)  of  eastern  spring. 
O'er  emerald  meadows  of  Kashmeer 
Invites  the  young  pursuer  near. 
And  leads  him  on  from  flower  to  flower 
A  weary  chase  and  wasted  hour. 
Then  leaves  him,  as  if  soars  on  high 
With  panting  heart  and  tearful  eye  : 
So  Beauty  lures  the  full  grown  child 
With  hue  as  bright,  and  wing  as  wild  ; 
A  chase  of  idle  hopes  and  fears. 
Begun  in  folly,  closed  in  tears. 
If  won,  to  equal  ills  betrayed. 
Woe  waits  the  insect  and  the  maid, 
A  life  of  pain,  the  loss  of  peace. 
From  infant's  play,  and  man's  caprice  : 
The  lovely  toy  so  fiercely  sought 
Hath  lost  its  charm  by  being  caught ; 


300  THE  GIAOUR. 

For  every  (ouch  that  wooed  its  stay 
Hath  hriishVl  its  hriglitesl  hues  awiiy, 
Till  cliaini,  and  hue,  aud  beauty  gone, 
'Tis  let  to  fly  or  fall  alone. 
W'Mi  wounded  wine;,  or  bleedinf);  breast, 
Ah  !  where  shall  either  victim  rest  ? 
Can  this  witii  laded  pinion  soar 
From  rose  to  tulip  as  before  ? 
Or  Beauty,  blighted  in  an  hour, 
Find  joy  within  her  broken  bower? 
No  :  gayer  insects  fluttering  by 
Ne'er  droop  the  wing  o'er  those  that  die. 
And  lovelier  things  have  mercy  shewn 
To  every  failing  but  their  own. 
And  every  woe  a  tear  can  claim 
Except  an,  erring  sister's  shame. 


The  mind,  that  broods  o'er  guilty  woes, 

Is  like  the  Scorpion  girt  by  fire. 
In  circle  narrowing  as  it  glows 
The  flames  around  their  captive  close, 
Till  inly  searched  by  thousand  throes, 

And  maddening  in  her  ire. 
One  sad  and  sole  relief  she  knows. 
The  sting  she  nourished  for  her  foes. 
Whose  venom  never  yet  was  vain. 
Gives  but  one  pang,  and  cures  all  pain. 
And  darts  into  her  desperate  brain. — 
So  do  the  dark  in  soul  expire. 
Or  live  like  Scorpion  girt  by  fire—  (17) 
So  writhes  the  mind  Remorse  halh  riven. 
Unfit  for  earth,  undoom'd  for  heav'n. 
Darkness  above,  despair  beneath, 
Around  it  flame,  within  it  death  ! — 


Black  Hassan  from  the  Haram  flies. 
Nor  bends  on  woman's  form  his  eyes. 
The  unwonted  chase  each  hour  employs, 
Yet  shares  he  not  the  hunter's  joys. 
Not  thus  wjis  Hassan  wont  to  fly 
When  Leila  dwell  in  his  Serai, 
Doth  Leila  there  no  longer  dwell  ? 
That  tale  can  only  Hassan  tell  ? 
Strange  rumours  in  our  city  say 
I'pon  that  eve  she  fled  away. 
When  Rhamazan's  (IS)  la.st  sun  was  set, 
And  flashiiig  from  each  miaarct 


'  THE  GIAOUR.  301 

Millions  of  lamps  proclaimed  the  feast 

Of  Bairam  through  the  boundless  East. 

'Twas  then  she  went  as  to  the  bath, 

Which  Hassan  vainly  search'd  in  wrath. 

For  she  was  flown  her  master's  rage 

In  likeness  of  a  Georgian  page  ; 

And  far  beyond  the  Moslem's  power 

Had  wrong'd  him  with  the  faithless  Giaour, 

Somewhat  of  this  had  Hassan  deem'd, 

But  still  so  fond,  so  fair  she  seem'd, 

Too  well  he  trusted  to  the  slave 

Whose  treachery  deserved  a  grave  : 

And  on  that  eve  had  gone  to  mosque. 

And  thence  to  feast  in  his  kiosk, 

Such  is  the  tale  his  Nubians  tell, 

Who  did  not  watch  their  charge  too  well ; 

But  others  say,  that  on  that  night. 

By  pale  Phingari's  (19)  trembling  light. 

The  Giaour  upon  his  jet  black  steed 

Was  seen,  but  seen  alone  to  speed 

With  bloody  spur  along  the  shore, 

Nor  maid  nor  page  behind  him  bore. 


Her  eye's  dark  charm  'twere  vain  to  tell, 
But  look  on  those  of  the  Gazelle, 
It  will  assist  thy  fancy  well : 
As  large,  as  languishingly  dark. 
But  Soul  beamed  forth  in  every  spark 
That  darted  from  beneath  the  lid. 
Bright  as  the  jewel  of  Giamschid.  (20) 
Yea,  Soul,  and  should  our  prophet  say 
That  form  was  nought  but  breathing  clay, 
By  Alia  !   I  would  answer  nay ; 
Though  on  Al-Sirat's  (21)  arch  I  stood, 
Which  totters  o'er  the  fiery  flood, 
With  Paradise  within  my  view. 
And  all  his  Houris  beckoning  through. 
Oh  !  who  young  Leila's  glance  could  read 
And  keep  that  portion  of  his  creed  (22) 
Which  saith,  that  woman  is  but  dust, 
A  soulless  toy  for  tyrant's  lust? 
On  her  might  Muftis  gaze,  and  own 
That  through  her  eye  the  immortal  shone — 
On  her  fair  cheeks  unfading  hue, 
The  young  pomegranate's  (23)  blossoms  strew 
Their  bloom  in  bushes  ever  new — 
Her  hair  in  hyacinthine  (24)  flow 
2  C 


;!02  THE  GIAOUR. 

WIk'ii  left  to  roll  its  folds  below  ; 
As  midst  her  handimiids  in  the  hall 
She  stood  superior  to  them  all, 
Hath  swept  the  marble  where  her  feet 
Gleamed  whiter  than  the  mountain  sleet 
Ere  from  the  cloud  that  gave  it  birth, 
It  fell,  and  caught  one  stain  of  earth  ; 
The  cygnet  nobly  walks  the  water- 
So  moved  on  earth  Circassia's  daughter— 
The  loveliest  bird  of  Franguestan  !  (25) 
As  rears  her  crest  the  ruffied  Swan, 

And  spurns  the  wave  with  wings  of  pride, 
AVhen  pass  the  steps  of  stranger  man 

Along  the  banks  that  bound  her  tide  ; 
Thus  rose  fair  Leila's  whiter  neck 
Thus  armed  with  beauty  would  she  check 
Intrusion's  glance,  till  Folly's  gaze 
Shrvmk  from  the  charms  it  meant  to  praise. 
Thus  high  and  gracel'ul  washer  gait ; 
Her  heart  as  tender  to  her  mate  ; 
Her  mate— stern  Hassan,  who  was  he  ? 
Alas  !  that  name  was  not  for  thee  ! 


Stern  Hassan  hath  a  journey  ta'en 
With  twenty  vassals  in  his  train, 
Each  armed  as  best  becomes  a  man. 
With  arquebuss  and  ataghan  ; 
The  chief  before,  as  decked  for  war, 
Bears  in  his  belt  the  scimitar 
Stained  with  the  best  of  Arnaout  blood, 
When  in  the  pass  the  rebels  stood, 
And  few  returned  to  tell  the  tale 
Of  what  befell  in  Fame's  vale, 
The  pistols  which  his  girdle  bore 
Were  those  that  once  a  pasha  wore. 
Which  still  though  gemmed  and  bossed  with  gold. 
Even  robbers  tremble  to  behold. 
'Tis  said,  he  goes  to  woo  a  bride 
More  true  than  her  who  left  his  side  ; 
The  faithless  slave  that  broke  her  bower, 
And  worse  than  faithless,  for  a  Giaour ! 


The  sun's  last  rays  are  on  the  hill. 
And  sparkle  in  the  fountain  rill. 
Whose  welcome  waters,  cool  and  clear  ; 
Draw  blessings  from  the  mountaineer : 


THE  GIAOUR.  302 


Here  may  the  loiterini^  merchant  Greek 
Find  that  repose  'twere  vain  to  seek 
In  cities  lodged  too  near  his  lord, 
And  trembling  for  his  secret  hoard — 
Here  may  he  rest  where  none  can  see, 
In  crowds  a  slava,  in  deserts  free  ; 
And  with  forbidden  wine  may  stain 
The  bowl  a  Moslem  must  not  drain. 


The  foremost  Tartar's  in  the  gap, 
Conspicuous  by  his  yellow  cap  ; 
The  rest  in  lengthening  line  the  while 
Wind  slowly  through  the  long  defile  ; 
Above,  the  mountain  rears  a  peak, 
Where  vultures  whet  their  thirsty  beak, 
And  their's  may  be  a  feast  to  night, 
Shall  tempt  them  down  ere  morrow's  light ; 
Beneath,  a  river's  wintry  stream 
Has  shrunk  before  the  summer  beam, 
And  left  a  channel  bleak  and  bare, 
Save  shrubs  that  spring  to  perish  tliere  ; 
Each  side  the  midway  path  there  lay 
Small  broken  crags  of  granite  grey, 
By  time,  or  mountain  lightning,  riven 
From  summits  clad  in  mists  of  heaven  ; 
For  where  is  he  that  hath  beheld 
The  peak  of  Liakura  unveiled  ? 


They  reach  the  grove  of  pine  at  last, 
"  Bismillah  !  (26 j  now  the  peril's  past; 
"  For  yonder  view  the  opening  plain, 
"  And  there  we'll  prick  our  steeds  amain  ;" 
The  Chiaus  spake,  and  as  he  said, 
A  bullet  whistled  o'er  his  head  ; 
The  foremost  Tartar  bites  the  ground  ! 

Scarce  had  they  time  to  check  the  rein 
Swift  from  their  steeds  the  riders  bound. 

But  three  shall  never  mount  again, 
Unseen  the  foes  that  gave  the  wound, 

The  dying  ask  revenge  in  vain. 
With  steel  unsheath'd,  and  carbine  bent, 
Some  o'er  their  courser's  harness  leant, 

Half  sheltered  by  the  steed. 
Some  fly  behind  the  nearest  rock. 
And  there  await  the  coming  shock, 

Nor  tamely  stand  to  bleed 


504  THE  GIAOUR. 

Uent'ulh  llie  sliafi  of  foes  nnseen, 

Who  (lave  not  quit  their  craggy  screen. 

Stern  Hassan  only  from  his  horse 

Disdains  fo  licjlit,  nnil  keeps  bis  course, 

Till  liery  flashes  in  the  van 

Proclaim  too  sure  the  rohher's  clan 

Have  well  seenr'd  the  only  way 

Could  now  avail  the  promis'd  prey  ; 

Then  curl'd  his  very  beard  (-27)  with  ire, 

And  glared  his  eye  with  fiercer  fire. 

"  Though  far  and  near  the  bullets  hiss, 

"  I've  scaped  a  bloodier  hour  than  this." 

And  now  the  foe  their  covert  quit. 

And  call  his  vassals  to  submit ; 

But  Hassan's  frown  and  furious  word 

Are  dreaded  more  tlian  hostile  sword" 

Nor  of  his  little  band  a  man 

Resigned  carbine  or  ataghan, 

Nor  raised  the  craven  cry,  Amaun  !  (28) 

]n  fuller  sigjit,  more  near  and  near, 

'i'he  lately  anibush'd  foes  appear, 

And  issuing  from  the  grove,  advance 

Some  who  on  battle  charger  prance. 

Who  leads  them  on  with  loreign  brand 

Far  flashino;  in  his  red  right  hand  ? 

"  'Tis  he  !   'tis  he  !    1  know  him  now ; 

•'  I  know  him  by  his  pallid  brow  ; 

"  I  know  him  by  the  evil  eye  (29) 

"  That  aids  his  envious  treachery  : 

"  f  know  him  by  his  jet-black  barb, 

"  Though  now  arrayed  in  Arnaout  garb, 

"  Apostate  from  his  own  vile  faith, 

"  It  shall  not  save  him  from  the  death  : 

"  'Tis  he  !  well  met  in  any  hour, 

"  Lost  Leila's  love,  accursed  Giaour  !" 

As  rolls  the  river  into  ocean, 
In  sable  torrent  wildly  streaming  ; 

As  the  sea-tide's  opposing  motion. 
In  azure  column  proudly  gleaming, 
Beats  back  the  current  many  a  rood. 
In  curling  foam  and  mingling  flood, 
While  eddying  whirl,  and  bieaking  wave, 
Housed  by  the  blast  of  winter,  rave  ; 
Though  sparkling  spray,  in  thundering  clash. 
The  lightnings  of  the  waters  flash 
In  awful  whiteness  o'er  the  shore, 
That  shines  and  shakes  beneath  the  roar  ; 


THE  GIAOUR.  S'^i 

Tlius — as  the  stream  and  ocean  greet, 
With  waves  that  niaddeH  as  they  meet — 
Thus  join  the  bauds,  whom  mutual  wrong, 
Andtate,  and  fury,  drive  along, 
The  bicliering  salires'  shivering  jar  ; 

And  peaJing  wide  or  ringing  near 

Its  echoes  on  tlie  (hrol)l)ing  ear, 
Tile  death-shot  hissing  i'rom  afar; 
Tlie  shock,  the  shout,  tlie  groan  of  war, 

lleverlierate  along  that  vale, 

More  suited  to  the  shepherd's  tale  : 
Though  few  the  numbers — their's  the  strife. 
That 'neither  spares  nor  speaks  for  life  ! 
Ah  !   fondly  youthful  hearts  can  press, 
To  seize  and  share  the  dear  caress  j 
But  Love  itself  could  never  pant 
For  all  that  Beauty  siglis  to  grant, 
With  half  the  fervour  Ilate  bestows 
Upon  tile  last  embrace  of  fues, 
Wlien  grappling  in  tiie  fight  they  fold 
Tiiose  arms  that  ne'er  shall  lose  their  hold  : 
Friends  meet  to  part ;  Love  laughs  at  faith  ; 
True  k)es,  once  met,  are  joinM  till  death. 


With  sabre  shiver'd  to  the  hilt. 
Yet  dripping  with  the  blood  he  spilt; 
Yet  strained  within  the  sever'd  hand 
VV'hich  quivers  round  the  faithless  brand  : 
His  turban  far  behind  him  roll'd, 
And  cleft  in  twain  its  firmest  fold  ; 
His  flowing  robe  by  falchion  torn 
And  crimson  as  those  clouds  of  morn 
That,  streaked  witli  dusky  red,  portend 
The  day  shall  have  a  stormy  end ; 
A  stain  on  every  bush  that  bore 
A  fragment  of  his  palampore,  (39) 
His  breast  with  wounds  unnuuiber'd  riven. 
His  back  to  earth,  his  face  to  heaven, 
Fall'n  Hassan  lies — his  unclosed  eye 
Vet  lowering  on  his  enemj-. 
As  if  the  hour  that  seal'd  his  fate 
Surviving  lelt  his  quenchless  liale  ; 
And  o'er  him  bends  that  foe  with  brow 
As  dark  as  his  that  bled  below— 


"  Yes,  Leila  sleeps  beneath  li.'  wave, 
"  But  his  shall  be  a  redder  gra^e  ; 
2  C  2 


306  THE  GIAOUR. 

"  Her  spirit  pointed  well  the  steel 
"  Which  taught  that  felon  heart  to  feel. 
"  He  called  the  Prophet,  but  his  power 
"  Wa-s  vain  against  the  vengeful  Giaour: 
•'  He  called  on  Alia — but  the  word 

"  Arose  unheeded  and  unheard. 

"  Thou  Paynim  fool !  could  Leila's  prayer 

"  Be  pa.'s'd,  and  thine  accorded  there  ? 

"  I  watch'd  mj-  time,   I  leagued  with  these, 

"  The  traiiov  in  his  turn  to  seize ; 

"  My  wrath  is  wreak'd,  the  deed  is  done, 

"  And  now  I  go — but  go  alone." 
•  *  • 

»  •  • 

The  browsing  camels'  bells  are  tinkling: 
His  mother  looked  from  h;^r  lattice  high — 

She  saw  the  dews  of  eve  besprinkling 
The  pasture  green  beneath  her  eye, 

She  saw  the  planets  faintly  twinkling  ; 
"  'Tis  twilight— sure  his  train  is  nigh." 
She  could  not  rest  in  the  garden-bower. 
But  gazed  through  the  grate  of  his  steepest  tower 
"  Why  comes  he  not  ?  his  steeds  are  fleet, 
"  Nor  shrink  they  from  the  summer  heat ; 
"  Why  sends  not  tlie  bridegi-oom  his  promis'd  gift  : 
"  Is  his  heart  more  cold,  or  his  barb  less  swift  ? 
"  Oh,  false  reproach  !  jon  Tartar  now 
"  Has  gain'd  our  nearest  mountain's  brow, 
"  And  warily  the  steep  descends, 
"  And  now  within  the  valley  bends  ; 
"  And  he  bears  the  gift  at  his  saddle  bow — 
"  How  could  I  deem  his  courser  slow  ? 
"  Right  well  my  largess  shall  repay 
"  His  welcome  speed,  and  weary  way." 

The  Tartar  'lighted  at  the  gate. 
But  scarce  upheld  his  fainting  weight : 
His  swarthy  visage  spake  distress. 
But  this  might  be  from  weariness ; 
His  garb  wilh  sanguine  spots  was  dyed. 
But  these  might  be  from  his  courser's  side  ; 
He  drew  the  token  from  his  vest — 
Anr?el  of  Death  !    'tis  Hassan's  cloven  crest! 
His  calpac  (HI)  rent — his  caftan  red — 
"  Lady,  a  fearful  l)ride  thy  son  hath  wed  : 
"  Me,  not  from  mercy,  did  they  spare, 
"  But  this  empurpled  pledge  to  bear. 
"  Peace  to  the  brave  !  whose  blood  is  spilt : 
"  Woe  to  the  Giaour  I  for  his  the  guilt." 


THE  GIAOUR.  307 

A  turban  (42)  carved  in  coarsest  stone, 
A  pillar  witii  rank  weeds  o'ergrown, 
Whereon  can  now  be  scarcely  read 
The  Koran  verse  that  mourns  the  dead, 
Point  out  the  spot  where  Hassan  fell 
A  victim  in  that  lonely  dell. 
There  sleeps  as  true  an  Osmanlie 
As  e'er  at  Mecca  bent  the  knee  ; 
As  ever  scorn  "d  forbidden  wine, 
Or  pray'd  with  face  towards  the  shrine. 
In  orisons  resumed  anew 

At  solemn  solemn  sound  of  "  Alia  Hu  !"  (33) 
Yet  died  he  by  a  stranger's  hand, 
And  stranger  in  his  native  land  ; 
Yet  died  he  as  in  arms  he  stood, 
And  unavenged,  at  least  in  blood. 
But  him  the  maids  of  Paradise 

Impatient  to  their  balls  invite, 
And  the  dark  heaven  of  Houri's  eyes 
On  him  shall  glance  for  ever  bright ; 

They  come— their  kerchiefs  green  they  wave,  (34) 

And  welcome  with  a  kiss  the  brave  ! 

Who  fall  in  battle  'gainst  a  Giaour 

Is  worthiest  an  immortal  bower. 


But  thou,  false  Infidel !  shalt  writhe  ; 
Beneath  avenging  Moiikir's  (3.5)  scythe  ; 
And  from  its  torment  'scape  alone 
To  wander  round  lost  Eblis'  (36)  throne  ; 
And  fire  iinquenched,  unquenchable, 
Around,  williin,  thy  heart  shall  dwell  ; 
Nor  ear  can  hear,  nor  tongue  can  tell, 
The  tortures  of  that  inward  hell  ! 
But  first,  on  earth  as  Vampire  (3T)  sent, 
Thy  cor-e  shall  from  its  tomb  be  rent : 
Then  glia^tl}-  haunt  thy  native  place. 
And  suck  the  blood  of  all  thy  race  ; 
Th'jre  from  Ihy  daughter,  sister,  wife. 
At  midnight  drain  the  stream  of  life; 
Yet  loathe  the  ban(iuet  which  perforce 
Must  feed  thy  livid  living  corse  ; 
Thy  victims,   ere  they  yet  expire, 
Shall  know  the  demon  for  their  sire, 
As  cursing  thee,  thou  cursing  them. 
Thy  flowers  are  withered  on  the  stem. 
But  one  that  for  tliy  crime  must  fall. 
The  youngest,  mo4  beloved  of  all, 
Shall  bless  thee  with  a  fatlier's  name — 
That  word  shall  wrap  thy  heart  in  flame  ! 


308  THE  GIAOUR. 

Yet  must  thou  end  thy  task,  and  mark 
Her  cheek's  last  tinge,  her  eye's  last  spark, 
And  the  last  glassy  glance  must  view 
Which  freezes  o'er  its  lifeless  blue ; 
Then  with  unhallowed  band  shall  tear 
The  tresses  of  her  yellow  hair, 
Of  which  in  life  a  lock  when  shorn 
Affection's  fondest  pledge  was  worn  ; 
But  now  is  borne  away  by  thee. 
Memorial  of  thine  agony  ! 
Wet  with  thine  own  best  blood  shall  drip  (36) 
Thy  gnashing  tooth  and  haggard  lip  ; 
Then  stalking  to  thy  sullen  grave. 
Go— and  with  Gouls  and  Afrits  rave; 
Till  these  in  horror  shrink  away 
From  spectre  more  accursed  than  they ! 


"  How  name  j-e  jon  lone  Caloyer ? 

"  His  features  I  have  scatnied  before 
"  In  mine  own  land  :  'tis  many  a  year, 

*'  Since,  dashing  by  the  lonely  shore, 
"  I  saw  him  urge  as  fleet  a  steed 
"  As  ever  served  a  horseman's  need. 
"But  once  I  saw  that  face,  yet  then 
"  It  was  so  marked  with  inward  pain, 
"  I  could  not  pass  it  by  again ; 
"  It  breathes  the  same  dark  spirit  now, 
"  As  death  were  stamped  upon  his  brow." 

"  'Tis  twice  three  years  at  summer  tide 

"  Since  first  among  our  I'reres  he  came  ; 
"  And  here  it  soothes  him  to  al)ide 

"  For  some  dark  deed  he  will  not  name. 
"  But  never  at  our  vesper  prayer, 
"  Nor  e'er  before  confession  chair 
"  Kneels  he,  or  recks  he  when  arise 
"  Incense  or  anthem  to  the  skies, 
"  But  broods  within  his  cell  alone, 
"  His  faith  and  race  alike  unknown. 
"  The  sea  from  Paynim  land  he  crost, 
"  And  here  ascended  from  the  coast; 
"  Yet  seems  he  not  of  Othman  race, 
"  But  only  Christian  in  his  fare  : 
"  I'd  judge  him  some  stray  renegade, 
"  Repentant  of  the  change  lie  made, 
"  Save  that  he  shuns  our  holy  shrine, 
"  Nor  tasks  14je  sacred  bread  and  wine  ; 


,    THE  GIAOUR.  30^ 

"  Great  largess  to  these  walls  be  brought, 

"  And  thus  our  Abbot's  favour  bought ; 

"  But  were  I  a  prior,  not  a  day 

"  Should  brook  such  stranger's  further  stay, 

"  Or  pent  within  our  penance  cell, 

"  Should  doom  him  there  for  aye  to  dwell ; 

"  Much  in  his  visions  mutters  he 

"  Of  maiden  'whelmed  beneath  the  sea  ; 

"  Of  sabres  clashing,  foemen  flying, 

"  M'^rongs  avenged,  and  Moslem  dying. 

"  On  cliff  he  halh  been  known  to  stand, 

"  And  rave  as  to  some  bloody  hand 

"  Fresh  severed  from  its  parent  limb, 

"  Invisible  to  all  but  him, 

"  Which  beckons  onward  to  his  grave, 

"  And  lures  to  leap  into  the  wave." 


Dark  and  unearthly  is  the  scowl 
That  glares  beneath  his  dusky  cowl ; 
The  flash  of  that  dilating  eye 
Reveals  too  much  of  times  gone  by  ; 
Though  varying,  indistinct  it's  hue. 
Oft  will  his  glance  the  gazer  rue, 
For  in  it  lurks  that  nameless  spell 
Which  speaks,  itself  unspeakable, 
A  spirit  yet  unquelled  and  high, 
That  claims  and  keeps  ascendancy. 
And  like  the  bird  whose  pinions  quake, 
But  cannot  fly  the  gazing  snake. 
Till  other  quails  beneath  his  look. 
Nor  'scape  the  glance  they  scarce  can  brook, 
From  him  the  half  affrighted  Friar, 
When  met  alone,  would  fain  retire 
As  if  that  eye  and  bitter  smile 
Transferred  to  others  fear  and  guile. 
Not  oft  to  smile  descendeth  he. 
And  when  he  doth  Mis  sad  to  see 
That  he  but  mocks  at  misery. 
How  that  pale  lip  will  curl  and  quiver  ! 
Then  fix  once  more  as  if  for  ever  ; 
As  if  his  sorrow  or  disdain 
Forbade  him  e'er  to  smile  again. 
Well  were  it  so— such  ghastly  mirth 
From  joyaunce  ne'er  derived  its  birth. 
But  sadder  still  it  were  to  trace 
What  once  were  feelings  in  that  face  : 
Time  hath  not  yet  the  features  fixed  ; 
But  brighter  traits  with  evil  mixed, 


310  THE  GIAOUR. 

A  nd  there  are  hues  not  nlways  faded, 

Which  speak  a  mind  not  all  degraded 

Even  by  the  crimes  through  which  it  waded  ; 

The  common  crowd  but  see  the  gloom 

Of  wayward  deeds,  and  fitting  doom  ; 

The  close  observer  can  espy 

A  noble  soul,  and  lineage  high  ; 

Alas  !  though  both  bestowed  in  vain, 

Which  Grief  can  change,  and  Guilt  could  stain. 

ft  was  no  vulgar  tenement 

To  which  sucii  lofty  gifts  were  lenf^ 

And  still  with  lillle  less  than  dread 

On  such  the  sight  was  riveted. 

The  roofless  cot,  decayed  and  rent, 

Will  scarcely  delay  the  passer  by  u 
The  tower  by  war  or  tempest  bent, 
While  yet  may  frown  one  battlement, 

Demands  and  taunts  (he  stranger's  eye  ; 
Each  ivied  arch,  and  pillar  lone, 
Pleads  haughtily  for  glories  gone  ! 

"  His  floating  robe  around  him  folding, 

"  Slow  sleeps  he  through  the  columned  aisle  ; 
"  With  dread  beheld,  with  gloom  beholding 

"  The  rites  that  sanctify  the  pile. 
"  But  when  the  anthem  shakes  the  choir, 
"And  kneel  the  monks,  his  steps  retire  ; 
"  By  yonder  lone  and  wavering  torch 
"  His  aspect  glares  within  the  porch  ; 
"  There  will  he  pause  till  all  is  done — 
"  And  hear  the  prayer,  but  utter  none. 
"  See — by  the  half  illumined  wall 
"  His  hood  fly  back,  his  dark  hair  fall, 
"  That  pale  brow  wildly  wreathing  round, 
"  As  if  the  Gorgon  there  had  bound 
"  The  sablest  of  the  serpent-braid 
"  That  o'er  her  fearful  forehead  strayed  : 
"  For  he  declines  the  convent  oath, 
"  And  leaves  those  locks  unhallowed  growth, 
"  But  wears  our  garb  in  all  beside  j 
"  And,  not  from  piety  but  pride, 
"  Gives  wealth  to  walls  that  never  heard 
"  Of  his  one  holy  vow  nor  word. 
"  Lo  .'  —  mark  ye,  as  the  harmony 
"  Peals  louder  praises  to  the  sky, 
"  That  livid  cheek,  that  stony  aiiu 
"  Of  mix'd  defiance  and  despair  f 
"  Saint  Francis  keep  him  him  from  the  shrine  ! 


THE  GIAOUR.  311 

"Else  may  we  dread  the  wrath  divine 

"  Made  manifest  by  awful  sign. 

"  If  ever  evil  angel  bore 

"  The  form  of  mortal,  such  he  wore  ! 

"  By  all  my  hope  of  sins  forgiven, 

"  Such  looks  are  not  of  earth  nor  heaven  ! 

To  love  the  softest  hearts  are  prone, 
But  such  can  ne'er  be  all  his  own  : 
Too  timid  in  his  woes  to  share, 
Too  meek  to  meet,  or  brave  despair  ; 
And  sterner  hearts  alone  may  feel 
The  wound  that  time  can  never  heal. 
The  rugged  metal  of  the  mine 
Must  burn  before  its  surface  shine, 
But  plunged  within  the  furnace  flame, 
It  bends  and  melts — though  still  the  same  : 
Then  temper'd  to  thy  want,  or  will, 
'Twill  serve  thee  to  defend  or  kill ; 
A  breast  plate  for  thine  hour  of  need. 
Or  blade  to  bid  thy  foeman  bleed  ; 
But  if  a  dagger's  form  it  bear. 
Let  those  who  shape  its  edge  beware  ! 
Thus  passion's  fire,  and  woman's  heart. 
Can  turn  and  tame  the  sterner  heart: 
From  these  its  form  and  tone  are  ta'en. 
And  what  they  make  it  must  remain, 
But  break — before  it  bend  again. 


If  solitude  succeed  to  grief. 
Release  from  pain  is  slight  relief;    • 
The  vacant  bosom's  wilderness 
Might  thank  the  pang  that  made  it  less. 
We  loathe  what  none  are  left  to  share  : 
Eren  bliss — 'twere  woe  alone  to  bear  j 
The  heart  once  left  thus  desolate 
Must  fly  at  last  for  ease — to  hate. 
ft  is  as  if  the  dead  could  feel 
The  icy  worm  around  them  steal. 
And  shudder  as  the  reptiles  creep 
To  revel  o'er  their  rotting  sleep, 
Without  the  power  to  scare  away 
The  cold  consumers  of  their  clay  ; 
It  is  as  if  the  desert  bird,  (39) 

Whose  beak  unlocks  her  bosom's  stream 
To  still  her  famish'd  nestlings'  scream, 
Nor  mourns  a  life  to  them  transferred, 


312  THE  GIAOUR. 

Should  rend  her  rash  devoted  breast, 
And  find  them  flown  her  empty  nest. 
The  keenest  pangs.the  wretched  And 

Are  rapture  to  the  dreary  void, 
The  leafless  desert  of  the  mind, 

The  waste  of  feelings  unemploy'd. 
Who  would  be  doom'd  to  gaze  upon 
A  sky  without  a  cloud  or  sun  ? 
\  Lefs  hideous  I'ar  the  tempest's  roar 

Than  ne'er  to  brave  (he  billows  more — 
ThrowMi,  when  the  war  of  winds  is  o'er, 
A  lonely  wreck  on  fortune's  shore, 
'Mid  sullen  calm,  and  silent  bay. 
Unseen  to  drop  by  dull  decay  ; — 
Better  to  sink  beneath  the  shock,       «■ 
Than  moulder  piecemeal  on  the  rock  ! 


"  Father !  thy  days  have  passed  in  peace, 

"  Mid  counted  beads,  and  countless  prayer  ; 
"  To  bid  the  sins  of  others  cease, 

"  Thyself  without  a  crime  or  care, 
"Save  transient  ills  that  all  must  bear, 
"  Has  been  thy  lot  from  youth  to  age  ; 
"  And  thou  wilt  bless  thee  from  the  rage 
"  Of  passions  fierce  and  uncontroU'd, 
"  Such  as  the  penitents  unfold, 
"  Whose  secret  sins  and  sorrows  rest 
"  Within  thy  pure  and  pitying  breast. 
"  My  days,  though  few,  have  pass'd  below, 
"  In  much  of  joy,  but  more  of  woe  ; 
"  Yet  still  in  hours  of  love  or  strife, 
"  I've  'scaped  the  weariness  of  life; 
"  Now  leagued  with  friends,  now  girt  by  foe 
"  1  loathed  the  languor  of  repose. 
"  Now  nothing  left  to  love  or  hate, 
"  No  more  with  hope  or  pride  elate, 
"  I'd  rather  be  the  the  thing  that  crawls 
"  Most  noxious  o'er  a  dungeon's  walls, 
"  Than  pass  my  dull,  unvarying  days, 
"  Condemn'd  to  meditate  and  gaze. 
"  Yet,  lurks  a  wish  within  my  breast 
"  For  rest — but  not  to  feel  'tis  rest. 
•'  Soon  shall  my  fate  that  wish  fulfil  ; 

"  And  I  shall  sleep  without  the  dream 
"  Of  what  I  was,  and  would  be  still, 

"  Dark  as  to  thee  my  deeds  may  seem  : 


THE  GIAOUR.  3TS 

"■'  M.v  mpmor)'  now  is  l)ut  tbetomb 

*'  Ol  jnjs  lon^  tlcacl  ;  my  liope,  their  iloom  : 

■"  Tt»uii<!;h  liettec  to  Imvc  lUed  with  those 

♦'  Than  heai-  ;i  lite  of  Hi»iJ"erh)g  wot's. 

"  My  spirit  slinniU  not  to  sustain 

"  Tile  seavchinf?  throes  of  ceaseless  pain  ; 

■"  Nor  sought  tlie  self  accorded  grave 

"  Of  ancient  fool  and  modern  knave  ; 

"  Yet  death  I  have  not  fear'd  to  meet ; 

"  And  in  the  field  it  had  lieen  sweet, 

"  r  lad  danger  woo'duieoti  to  move 

*'  The  slave  of  glory,  not  of  love. 

*'  I've  braved  it  -  not  lor  honour's  boast ; 

•"  I  smile  at  laiirefs  won  or  lost : 

"  To  such  let  othors  carve  their  waj', 

"  I'or  high  renown,  or  hireling  pay  : 

"  Hut  place  ag-iin  belbye  my  eyes, 

"  ^nght  that  1  deew  a  worthy  prize ; 

<'  Tlie  maid  I  love,  the  man  i  Uu\f, 

*'  And  I  will  hunt  the  st<'ps  of  fste, 

"  To  save  or  slay,  as  these  require, 

*'  'I  hvough  rending  steel,  and  rolling  fire; 

*'  Nor  neeil'st  thou  doubt  this  speech  from  one 

■"  Who  woulil  but  do — what  he  /lath  dune. 

<'  Death  is  but  what  the  haughty  bvave, 

•"  The  weak  must  bear,  the  wretch  must  crave  ; 

<'  Then  let  Life  go  t(s  Ilim  who  gave  : 

"  I  have  not  qiuul'd  to  danger's  brow 

"  When  high  and  hapi>)' — need  I  mom;  / 


*'  I  loved  her,  frlai' :  nay,  adored— 

"  Hat  these  are  words  that  all  can  use— 
"  I  proved  it  more  in  deed  than  word  ; 
*'  There's  blood  upon  that  dinted  sword, 

"  A  stain  its  steel  can  never  lose  : 
"  'Twas  .-bed  for  her  who  died  for  me, 

"  It  wiirm'd  the  heart  of  one  abhorr'J  ; 
"Nay,  start  not— no— nor  bend  lliy  knee, 

"  Nor  'midst  my  sins  such  act  record  ; 
"  ThoH  wilt  absolve  me  from  the  deed, 
"  For  he  was  hostile  to  thy  creed  ! 
*' The  v<ery  name  of  Nazarene 
■"  Was  wormwood  to  his  Paynim  spleen. 
«'  Ungrateful  fool !  since  hut  for  brands 
"  Well  wielded  in  some  hardy  hands, 
"  And  wounds  by  Galileans  given, 
"  The  surest  pass  to  Turkish  heaven, 
■"  For  him  his  llouris  still  might  wait 
2   D 


314  THE  GIAOUR. 

"  Impatient  at  the  prophet's  s^ate. 
'*  I  loved  her— love  will  tiinl  its  way 
"  Through  paths  where  wolves  would  fear  to  prey, 
"  And  if  it  dares  enough  'twere  hard 
"  If  passion  met  not  some  reward — 
"  No  matter  how,  or  where,  or  why, 
"  I  did  not  vainly  seek,  nor  sigh  : 
"  Yet  sometimes,  with  remorse,  in  vain. 
"  1  wished  she  had  not  loved  again. 
"  She  died— I  dare  not  tell  thee  how  ? 
"  But  look— 'tis  written  on  my  brow  ; 
"  There  read  of  Cain  the  curse  and  crime, 
"  In  characters  unworn  by  time  : 
"  Still  ere  thou  dost  condemn  me,  panse  ; 
"  Not  mine  the  act,  though  I  the  caust*. 
"  Yet  did  he  but  what  I  had  done, 
"  Mad  she  been  false  to  more  than  one. 
"  Faithless  to  him,  he  gave  the  blow  ; 
"  But  true  to  me,  I  laid  iiim  low  : 
"  Howe'er  deserv'd  Iier  doom  might  be, 
"  Her  treachery  was  truth  to  me; 
"  To  me  she  gave  her  heart,  that  all 
"  Which  tyranny  can  ne'er  enllirall  ; 
"  And  I,  alas  !   too  late  to  save  ; 
"  Yet  all  I  then  could  give,  I  gave, 
"  'Twas  some  relief,  our  foe  a  grave- 
«  His  death  sits  ligiitly  ;  but  her  fate 
«'  Has  made  me— w  hat  thou  well  may'st  hale. 
"  His  doom  was  sealed — he  knew  it  well, 

"  Warn'd  by  the  voice  of  stern  Taheer, 
"  Deep  in  whose  darkly  boding  ear  (40) 

*'  The  deathshot  peai'd  of  murder  near, 
"  As  tiled  the  troop  to  where  they  fetl  ! 

"  He  (lied  too  in  the  battle  broil, 
I  "  A  time  that  heeds  nor  pain  nor  toil ; 

"  One  cry  to  Mahomet  for  aid, 
,  "  One  prayer  to  Alia  all  he  made : 

"  He  knew  ami  crossed  me  in  the  Iray — 

"  I  gazed  upon  him  where  he  lay, 

"  And  w;i1clicd  bis  s[iiri1  ebb  away: 

"  Though  pierced  like  I'ard  by  hunter's  steel, 

"  He  felt  not  half  that  now  I  feel. 

"  I  searched,  but  vainly  searched,  to  find 

"  The  workings  of  a  wounded  mind, 

"  Each  feature  of  that  sullen  corse 

"  Betrayed  his  rage,  but  no  remorse. 

"Oh,  what  had  Vengeance  giv'n  to  trace 

"  Despair  upon  his  (l3'ing  (uvv  ! 

<'  The  late  repentance  of  that  hour. 


THE  GIAOUR.  3ii 


"  When  penitence  hath  lost  her  power 
*'  To  tear  one  terror  I'rom  the  grave, 
"  And  will  not  soothe,  and  can  not  save. 


"  The  cold  in  clime  are  cold  in  blood, 

"  Their  love  can  scarce  deserve  the  name  ; 
"  But  mine  was  like  the  lava  flood 

"That  boils  in  j4;(iia's  breast  of  flame. 
"  I  cannot  prate  in  puling  strain 
"  Of  lad3'-love,  and  beauty's  chain  : 
"  If  changing  cheek,  and  scorching  vein, 
"  Lips  taught  to  writhe,  but  not  complain, 
<'  If  bursting  heart,  and  madd'ning  brain, 
*'  And  daring  deed,  and  vengelul  steel, 
"  And  all  that  I  have  ielt,  and  feel, 
<'  Betoken  love — that  love  was  mine, 
*'  And  shown  by  many  a  bitter  sign. 
"  'Tis  true,  I  could  not  whine  nor  sigh, 
"  I  knew  but  to  obtain  or  die. 
"  I  die — but  first  I  have  possess 'd, 
"  And  come  what  may,  I  have  been  blest. 
"  Shall  I  the  doom  I  sought  upbraid  ? 
<'  No — reft  of  all,  yet  undismay'd 
•'  But  for  the  thought  of  Leila  slain, 
<'  Give  me  the  pleasure  with  the  puin, 
«  So  would  I  live  and  love  again. 
*'  I  grieve,  but  not,  my  holy  guide  ! 
"  For  him  who  dies,  but  her  who  died  : 
"She  sleeps  beneath  the  wandering  wave — 
<' All  !  hud  she  but  an  eaitlily  grnve, 
"This  breaking  heart  and  throbbing  head 
<'  Should  seek  and  sjiare  her  narrow  bed. 
<'  She  was  a  form  of  life  and  light, 
*'  That  seen  became  a  part  of  sight ; 
"  And  rose,  where'er  I  turn'd  mine  eye, 
"The  Morning-star  of  Memory  I 

"Yes,  Love  indeed  is  liglit  from  heaven  ; 

"A  spark  of  tliat  innnorlal  fire 
"  With  angels  shared,  by  Alia  given, 

"  To  lift  frojn  earth  our  low  desire. 
"  Devotion  walls  the  mind  above, 
"But  Heaven  itself  descends  in  love; 
"  A  feeling  from  the  (Jodhead  caught, 
<'  To  wean  from  self  e.ich  sordid  thought ; 
"  A  ray  of  him  w!io  foim'd  the  whole  ; 
"  A  glory  circle  round  the  soul ! 
<'  1  grunt  ivy  love  imperfecl,  all 


316  THE  GIAOUR, 

"  That  mortals  by  (he  name  miscall ; 
"  Then  deem  it  evil,  what  thou  wilt ; 
'<  But  say,  oh  say,  /nr\s  was  not  guilt ! 
"  She  wa5  my  liie's  uneniiiy  light : 
"  That  ((uenched,  what  beam  shall  break  my  night  ? 
"  Oh  !  would  it  shone  to  lead  me  still, 
"  Although  to  death  or  deadliest  ill, 
"  Why  marvel  ye,  if  they  who  lose 
"  This  present  joy,  this  future  hope, 
"  No  more  with  sorrow  meekly  cope  ; 
"  In  phrenzy  then  their  fate  accuse; 
"  In  madness  do  those  fearful  deeds 

'•  That  seem  to  add  but  guilt  to  woe  ? 
"  Alas  '.  tlie  breast  that  inly  bleeds 

'<  Hath  nought  to  dread  from  outwatd  blow ; 
"  Who  falls  from  all  he  knows  of  bliss, 
^'  Cares  little  into  what  abyss.  r, 

"Fierce  as  the  gloomy  vulture's  now 

"To  thee,  old  man,  my  deeds  appear^ 
"  I  read  abhorrence  on  thy  brow, 

"  And  this  too  was  I  born  to  bear  ! 
"  'Tis  true,  that,  like  that  bird  ol  prey, 
"  With  havock  have  I  mark'd  my  way  : 
"  IJut  this  was  taught  me  by  the  dove, 
*'  To  die — and  kuow  no  second  love. 
"  This  lesson  jet  bath  man  to  learn, 
"  Taught  by  the  thing  he  dares  to  spurn  : 
"  The  bird  lliat  sings  within  the  brake, 
"  The  swan  that  swims  upon  the  lake, 
"  One  mate,  and  one  alone  will  take, 
"  And  let  the  fool  still  prone  to  range, 
"  And  sneer  on  all  who  cannot  change, 
"  Partake  his  jest  with  boasting  boys  ; 
"  I  envy  not  his  varied  joys, 
"  But  deem  such  feeble,  heartless  man, 
"  Less  than  yon  solitary  swan  ; 
"  Far,  far  beneath  the  shallow  maid 
"  He  lelt  beli(;ving  and  betray'd. 
"  Such  shame  at  least  was  never  mine — 
"  Leila  !  each  thought  m  as  only  thine  1 
"  My  good,  my  guill,  my  weal,  my  woe,      • 
•     "  My  hope  on  high— my  all  belaw.  , 

"  Farlh  holds  no  other  like  to  thee, 
"  Or,  if  i1  tliHh,  in  vain  for  me  : 
"  For  worlds  I  dare  not  view  the  d«me 
"  llesembling  thee,  yet  not  the  same- 
''  The  very  crimes  that  mar  mv  youth, 
"This  bed  of  death— attest  my  truth! 
"  -"Tis  all  loo  lute- thou  wert,  thou  art 


THE  GIAOUR.  3 IT 

«  The  cherislrd  nuuliie.'-s  of  my  heart ! 
"And  slie  was  lost — and  3et  1  breiilhed, 

"  But  not  tlie  breath  of  liuman  life  ; 
"  A  serpent  round  my  heart  was  wreathed> 

<'  And  stung  my  every  thought  to  strife. 
"  Alike  all  time,  abhor'd  all  place, 
"  Shuddering-  I  shrunk  from  Nature's  face, 
<'  Where  every  hue  that  charmed  before 
'<  The  blackness  of  my  bosom  wore, 
"  The  rest  thou  dost  already  know, 
«  And  all  my  sins,  and  half  my  woe, 
"  But  talk  no  more  of  penitence  ; 
«<  Thou  see'st  I  soon  shall  part  from  hence  : 
"  And  if  thy  holy  tale  were  true, 
"  The  deed  that's  done  canst  thou  undo  ? 
«  Think  me  not  thankless— but  this  grief 
«  Lo'oks  not  to  priesthood  for  relief.  (41) 
<'  My  soul's  estate  in  secret  guess  ; 
<'But  would'st  thou  pity  more,  say  less. 
"  When  thou  canst  bid  my  Leila  live, 
"  Then  will  I  sue  thee  to  forgive  ! 
"  Then  plead  my  cause  in  that  high  place 
<'  Where  purchased  masses  proffer  grace. 
"  Go,  when  the  hunter's  hand  hath  wrung 
"  From  forest-cave  her  shrieking  young, 
"  And  calm  the  lonely  lioness  : 
"  But  soothe  not — mock  not  my  distress ! 

«  In  earlier  days  and  calmer  hours, 

"  When  heart  with  heart  delights  to  blend, 
"  Where  bloom  my  native  valley's  bowers 

"  I  had  —Ah  !   have  I  now  ?  a  friend  ! 
"  To  him  this  pledge  I  charge  thee  send, 

"  Memorial  of  a  youthful  vow  ; 
"  I  would  remind  him  of  my  end  : 

<'  Though  souls  absorbed  like  mine  allow 
"  Brief  thought  to  distant  frienship's  claim, 
«'  Yet  dear  to  him  my  blighted  name. 
"  'Tis  strange— he  prophesied  my  doom, 
"  And  1  have  smiled~I  then  could  smile — 
"  When  Prudence  would  bis  voice  assume, 

"  And  warn— I  reck'd  not  what— the  while  : 
"  But  now  remembrance  whispers  o'er 
"Those  accents  scarcely  mark'd  before. 
«  Say — that  his  bodings  came  to  pass, 

"  And  he  will  start  to  hear  the  truth, 

"  And  wish  his  words  had  not  been  sooth : 
'•  Tell  him,  unheeding  as  I  was, 
2  D  2 


31»  THE  GIAOIR. 

"  Through  many  ii  busy  bitter  scene 
"  01  all  our  golden  youlli  liud  been, 
"  In  pain,  my  lalteriiig  loiicrne  had  tried 
"  To  bless  his  memory  ere  I  ilied  ; 
"  But  heaven  iu  wrath  would  turn  away, 
"  If  Guilt  should  lor  the  puiUless  pruy, 
"  I  do  not  ask  him  not  to  blame, 
"  Too  gentle  he  to  wound  my  name  ; 
"  And  what  have  I  to  do  witii  lame  ? 
"  F  do  not  iisk  him  not  to  mourn, 
"  Such  cold  request  niiffht  sound  like  scorn  ; 
"  And  what  than  friendship's  manly  tear 
"  May  better  grace  a  brother's  bier? 
"  But  bear  this  ring,  his  own  of  old, 
"  And  tell  him — wiiul  thou  dost  behold  ! 
"  The  wither'd  frame,  the  ruin'd  mind, 
«'  The  wreck  by  passion  left  behind, 
"  A  shrivell'd  scroll,  a  seatter'd  leaf, 
"  Seur'd  by  the  autumn  blast  ol  grief ! 


"  Tell  me  no  more  of  fancj's  gleam, 
^'  No,  father,  no,  'twas  not  a  dream  ; 
"  Alas  !  the  dreamer  first  must  sleep, 
"  1  only  watch'd,  and  wish'd  to  weep  ; 
"  But  could  not,  for  my  burning  brow 
"  Throbh'd  to  the  very  brain  as  now : 
"  I  wish'd  but  for  a  single  tear, 
"  As  something  welcome,  jiew,  and  dear: 
"  I  wish'd  it  then,  I  wish  it  still, 
"Despair is  stronger  than  my  will. 
"  Waste  not  thine  orison,  despair 
"  Is  mightier  than  thy  pious  prayer; 
"  I  would  not  if  I  might,  be  blest : 
"  I  want  no  paradise,  but  rest. 
"  'Twas  then,  I  tell  thee,  father  !  then 
"  I  saw  her :  yes,  she  lived  again  ; 
"  And  shining  in  het  white  symar,  (42) 
"  As  through  yon  pale  grey  cloud  the  star 
"  Which  now  1  gaze  on,  as  on  her, 
*'  Who  look'd  ami  looks  far  lovelier, 
"  Dimly  I  view  its  trembling  spark, 
"  To-morrow's  night  shall  be  more  dark; 
"  And  I  before  its  rays  ajjpear, 
"  That  lifeless  thing  the  living  fear. 
"  I  wander,  father  !   for  my  soul 
"  Is  fleeting  towards  its  final  goal. 
"  I  saw  her,  friar,  and  I  rose 
"  Forgetful  of  our  former  vvoes; 


THE  GIAOUR.  319 

"  Ami  rushing  lioni  my  couch,  I  dart, 

"  Anil  clasi)  lier  lo  my  despersiti-  heart ; 

"  I  chisi)—  what  is  it  'that  1  clasp  : 

"  No  breathing  I'orm  within  my  srasp, 

"No  heart  that  beats  reply  to  mine, 

"  Vet,  LeilH  !  yet  the  form  is  thine  ! 

"  And  art  thou,  dearest,  changed  so  much. 

"  As  meet  my  eye,  yet  mork  my  touch  ? 

"  Ah  !  were  thy  beauties  e'er  so  cold, 

"  I  care  not,  so  my  amis  enlold 

"  'ilie  all  they  ever  wish'd  to  hold. 

"  Alas!  around  a  shadow  prest, 

"  'I'hey  shrink  upon  my  lonely  breast ; 

"  Yet  still  'Us  there  !   in  silence  stands, 

"  And  beckons  with  beseeching  hands  ! 

"  With  braided  hair,  and  bright-black  eye— 

"  1  knew  'twc.s  lalse — she  could  not  die  ! 

"  Rut  he  is  de&tl !  within  the  deU 

"  I  saw  him  buried  where  he  fell 

"  He  comes  not,  lor  he  cannot  break 

"  From  earth  :  why  then  art  thou  awake? 

"  They  told  me  wild  waves  roU'd  above 

"  The  face  I  view,  the  form  I  love  ; 

"  Tliey  told  me — 'twas  a  hideous  tale ; 

"  I'd  tell  it,  but  my  tongue  would  fail, 

"  If  true,  and  from  thine  ocean-cave 

"  Thou  com'st  to  claim  a  calmer  grave  ; 

"  Oil !   pass  thy  dewy  fingers  o'er 

"  This  brow,  that  then  will  burn  no  more  ; 

"  Or  place  them  on  my  hopeless  heart 

'<  But,  shape  or  shade  :  whate'er  thou  art, 

"  In  nier<y  ne'er  again  depart! 

"  Or  lartJier  with  thee  bear  my  soul 

"  Than  winds  can  waft,  or  wafers  roll! 


"  Such  is  my  name,  and  such  my  tale, 

'<  Confessor  !  to  th}-  secret  ear, 
"  I  breathe  th(;  sorrows  I  bewail, 

"  And  thank  thee  for  the  generous  tear 
"  This  gazing  eye  coulil  never  shed. 
"  Then  lay  me  Mith  the  liumbUst  dead, 
"  And,  s;i\i:  the  cross  above  my  head, 
"  Be  neither  name  nor  eniblt-m  spread, 
"  By  prying  straiigin-  to  be  read, 
"  Or  stay  the  passing  pilgrim's  tread. 


.{-'0  THE  GIAOUR. 

lie  passed — nor  of  his  name  and  race 
Ilatli  loft  ii  token  or  a  trace, 
Save  wLat  the  fatJier  must  not  say 
Who  shrived  him  on  his  dying  day  ; 
This  broken  tale  was  all  we  knew 
Of  lier  he  loved,  or  him  he  sfew.  (43) 


END  OF  THE  GIAOUR. 


NOTES    TO    THE    GIIOUR-  321 


NOTES  TO  THE  GL\OUR. 


}.  A  tomb  iibmLi  llie  rocks,  on  the  promontory,  by  some 
siipjiosed  the  sejiulclire  ot  Theruistocles. 

2.  The  attachment  of  the  nit{hlinp;ah*  to  the  rose  is  a  well 
known  Persian  (able.  It'  I  mistake  not,  "  the  Bulbul  of  a 
thousand  tales"  is  one  ol  his  ajipellations. 

3.  The  guitar  is  tlie  constant  amusement  of  tlie  Greek  sailor 
In  night :  wilii  a  steady  lair  wind,  and  during  a  calm,  it  is 
ucconipanied  alwaAs  bj-  the  voice,  and  often  by  dancing. 

•1.     "  Ay,  but  to  die  and  go  we  know  not  where, 
"  To  lie  in  cold  obstruction." 

J^Jea.'it./rc/or  Measure,  Act  III.  10.  Sc.  2. 

5.  T  trust  that  few  of  my  renders  have  ever  had  an  opportu- 
nity of  witnessing  what  is  here  attempted  in  description,  but 
those  who  have  will  probably  retain  a  painful  remembrance  of 
that  singular  beauty  which  pervades  with  lew  exceptions,  the 
features  of  the  dead,  a  few  iioursand  but  for  a  few  hours,  after 
"  the  sjiiril  is  not  there."  It  is  to  be  remarked,  in  cases  of 
violent  death  by  gun  shot  wounds,  the  expression  is  always  that 
of  languor,  whatever  the  natural  energy  of  the  sufferer's 
character  ;  but  in  death  from  u  stab,  the  countenance  pre- 
serves its  traits  of  feeling  or  ferocity,  and  the  mind  its  bias,  to 
the  last. 

fi.  Athens  is  the  property  of  the  Kislar  Aga  (the  slave  of 
the  seraglio,  and  guardian  of  the  women,)  who  appoints  the 
Waywode.  A  pander  and  eunuch — these  are  not  polite,  yet 
true  appellations — no^- governs  t/ie governor  o!  Athens! 

7.  Infidel. 

H.  "Tophnike,"  mnsquel. — The  Bairam  is  announced  by 
the  cannon  at  siniset  ;  the  ilhmiinalion  of  the  Mos(iues  and  the 
firing  of  all  kinds  of  sfliall  arms,  loaded  with  ball  proclaim  it 
during  the  night. 


323  Notes  to  thi:  giaouh. 

9.  .ferreoil,  or  Djerred,  n  bhmlcd  Turkish  javelin,  which  is 
ihirled  Irom  horseback  with  ,a;reat  I'orce  and  precision.  H  is  A 
I'iivoiirite  exercise  of  the  Mussulmans  ;  hut  I  know  not  if  it 
can  he  called  a  manly  one;  since  tlie  most  expert  in  the  art  are 
the  Black  Eunuchs  ol"  Constantinople. —  I  think,  next  to  these 
ji  Rlamlouk  at  Smynia  was  the  most  skilful  that  came  within 
my  observation. 

10.  The  blast  of  thedesart,  fatal  to  every  thing  living,  and 
often  alluded  to  in  eastern  poetry. 

11.  To  partake  of  food,  to  break  bread  and  salt  with  your 
host,  insures  the  safety  of  the  guest :  even  though  an  enemy, 
bis  person  from  that  moment  is  sacred. 

12.  I  need  hardly  observe,  that  Charity  and  Hospitality  are 
the  first  duties  enjoined  by  Mahomet ;  and,  to  say  truth,  very 
generally  |)racticed  by  his  disciples.  The  first  praise  that  can 
be  bestowed  on  a  chief,  is  a  panegyric  on  his  bounty  ;  the  next 
on  his  valour. 

13.  The  ataghan,  a  long  dagger  worn  with  pistols  in  the 
belt,  in  a  metal  scabbard,  generally  of  silver ;  and  among  the 
\\ealthier,  gilt,  or  of  gold, 

14.  Green  is  the  privileged  colour  of  the  prophet's  nume- 
rous pretended  descendants ;  with  them,  as  here,  faith  (the 
family  inheritance)  is  supposed  to  supercede  the  necessity  of 
good  works ;  they  are  the  worst  of  a  very  indift'erent  brood. 

1.5.  Saliim  aleikoum  !  Aleikoum  snlnm  !  Pence  be  with  yon  ! 
be  with  you  peace  ! — the  salutation  reserved  for  the  Faithful : 
—  to  a  Christian,  'M'rlarula,"  A  good  Journey!  or  Sabian 
Liresmen,  Sabjm  serula ;  Good  morn,  Good  even  ;  and  some- 
times "  May  your  end  be  happy  \"  are  the  usual  salutes. 

16.  Tlie  blue  winged  butterfly  of  Kashraeer,  the  most  rare 
and  beautilul  of  the  species. 

17.  Alluding  to  the  dubious  suicide  of  the  scorpion,  so  placed 
for  experiment  by  gentle  philosophers.  Some  maintain  that 
the  position  of  the  sting,  when  turned  towartls  the  head,  is 
merely  a  convulsive  movement;  but  others  have  actually 
brought  in  the  verdict  "  Felo  de  se."  The  scorpions  are 
surely  interested  in  a  speedy  decision  of  the  question ;  as,  if 
once  fairly  established  as  insect  Catos,  they  will  probably  be 
allowed  to  live  as  long  as  they  think  proper,  without  being 
martyred  for  the  sake  of  an  hypothesis. 


xoTi:s  TO  THE  ciiAOun.  323 

18.  The  caiiRon  at  sunset  close  the  Rhamazan.  SeeN«te(«.) 

19.  Phingari,  the  moon. 

20.  The  celebrated  fabulous  ruby  of  Sultan  Giamschid, 
the  embellisher  of  Istakar  ;  from  its  splendour  named 
Schebgerag',  "  the  torch  of  night;"  also,  "  the  cup  of  tjie 
sun,"  cfec.  In  the  first  editions  "  Giamschid"  was  vvrilten 
as  a  word  of  Ihree  syllables,  so  D'Herbelot  has  it  ;  but 
lam  told  Richardson  reduces  it  to  a  dissylh  b  e,  and  writfs 
"  Jamshid"  I  have  left  in  tlie  te.vt  the  orthogra|)tiy  of  the  one 
with  the  pronunciation  of  the  other. 

21.  Al-Sirat,  the  bridge  of  breadth  less  than  the  thread  of  a 
famished  spider,  over  whicli  the  Mussulmans  must  skate  into 
Paradise,  to  which  it  is  Ihe  only  entrance  ;  but  this  is  not  the 
worst,  the  river  beneatli  being  liell  itself,  into  wliicli,  as  may 
be  expected,  the  unskillul  and  tender  of  loot  contrive  to  Imiible 
w'ilh  a  "  facilis  descensus  Averni,-'  not  very  pleasing  in  [iros- 
pect  to  the  next  passenger.  There  is  a  shorter  cut  downwards 
for  the  Jews  and  Christians. 

22.  A  vulgar  error:  the  Koran  allots  at  least  a  third  of  Pa- 
raised  to  well-behaved  women  ;  but  by  far  the  greater  number 
of  Mussulmans  interpret  the  text  their  own  way,  and  exclude 
their  moieties  from  heaven.  IJeiiig  enemies  to  Platonics,  they 
cannot  discern  "any  litness  of  things"  in  the  souls  of  the  other 
sex,  conceiving  them  to  be  superseded  by  the  Ilouris. 

23.  An  oriental  simile,  which  may  perhaps,  though  fairly 
stolen,  be  deemed  "plus  Arabe  qu'en  Arable." 

21.  Ilyacinthine,  in  Araljic,  "  Sunbul"  as  common  a  thought 
in  the  eastern  poets  as  it  was  among  Ihe  (ireeks. 

2J.  "  Franguestan,"  Circassia. 

20.  Bismillah — "  In  the  name  of  God  ;"  the  commencement 
of  all  the  chapters  of  (he  Koran  but  one,  and  of  prayer  and 
thanksgiving. 

21.  A  phenomenon  not  uncommon  with  anangry  Mussulman. 
In  1M09,  the  Captain  Pacha's  whiskers,  at  a  diplomatic  audi- 
ence, were  no  less  lively  with  indignation  than  a  tiger  cat's,  to 
the  horror  of  all  the  dragomans  ;  the  portenfious  mustachios 
twisted,  they  stood  erect  ol  their  own  accord,  and  were  expected 
every  moment  to  change  their  colour,  but  at  last  condescended 
to  subsiele,  wliich,  probably,  savi.'d  more  iieads  than  they  con- 
tained hair*. 


324  NOTES     TO    THi:    GIAOUU. 

28.  "Amaun,"  quarlcr,  j)iiri!on. 

2).  The  "  evil  eye,"  a  common  siiperstifion  in  the  Lt?v;int, 
and  ol'  which  the  imaginary  etiects  are  yet  very  singular  ol 
those  who  conceive  themselves  affected. 

.    .">(>.     The    flowered    shawls    generally    worn  hy  persons  of 
rank. 

HI.  The  "Calpac"  is  tlie  solid  cap,  or  centre  part  ol  tlie 
liead-dress  ;   the  shawl  is  wound  round  it,  and  lornis  the  tuiiiaii.- 

'.i2.  The  turban,  pillar,  and  inscriptive  verse,  decorate  the 
tombs  of  the  Osmanlies,  whether  in  the  cemetery  or  the  wild- 
erness. Ill  the  mountains  you  frequently  pass  similar  memen- 
tos;  and  on  iiKjuiry  you  are  iiiforined,  tiiat  the}  record  some 
victim  of  rebellion,  plunder,  or  revenge. 

33.  "AllaHu!"  the  concluding  words  of  the  Muezzin's 
call  to  prayer  from  tlie  highest  gallerj-  on  the  exterior  of  the 
iMinaret.  On  a  still  evening,  when  the  Muezzin  has  a  fine 
voice,  which  is  frequently  tlie  case,  the  elfect  is  solemn  and 
beautiful  beyond  all  the  bells  in  Christendom. 

3f.  The  following  is  a  part  of  a  battle  song  of  the  Turks  : 
"  i  see — 1  ;-ee  a  dark-eyed  girl  of  Paradise,  and  she  waves  a 
"  liaiidkerchief,  a  kerchief  of  green  j  and  cries  «loud,  Come, 
"  kiss  nie,  for  I  love  thee,"  &c. 

35.  Monkir  and  Nekir  are  the  inquisitors  of  the  dead,  before 
whom  the  corpse  undergoes  a  slight  noviciate  and  prepa- 
ratory training  for  daniiutlion.  If  the  answers  are  none  of 
the  clearest,  he  is  hauled  up  with  a  scj-the  and  thumped  down 
Willi  a  red  hot  mace  till  properly  seasoned,  with  a  variety  ol 
subsidiary  probations.  The  olHce  of  these  angels  is  no  sine- 
cure ;  there  are  but  two,  and  the  number  of  the  orthodox 
deceased  being  a  small  proportion  to  the  remainder,  their 
hands  are  always  full. 

36.  Eblis,  the  original  Prince  of  Darkness. 

37.  The  Vampire  superstition  is  still  general  in  the  Levant. 
Honest  Tournelort  tells  a  long  story,  which  Mr.  Southey,  in 
Uuf  notes  on  Tliaiaba,  quotes,  about  these  "  \'roiirolochas" 
as  he  calls  them.  The  llomaic  term  is  *'  Vardoulacha."  I 
recollect  a  whole  family  being  terrified  at  the  scream  of  a 
child,  which  they  imagined  must  proceed  from  such  a  visita- 
liou.  The  Greeks  never  mention  the  word  without  horror.  I 
find  that   "  HioiH-olokas"  is  an  old  legiliinate  lleUeiiic  appel- 


KOTES  TO   THS   GIAOUR.  325 

lAtion — at  least  is  so  applied  to  Arsenius,  who,  -according  to  the 
Greeks,  was  after  his  death  animated  by  the  Devil. — The 
moderns,  however,  use  the  word  I  mention. 

.38.  The  freshness,  of  the  face,  and  the  wetness  of  the  lip 
with  blood,  are  the  never-failing  signs  of  a  Vampire.  The 
stories  toki  in  Hungary  and  Greece  of  these  foul  feeders  are 
singular,  and  some  of  them  most  incredibly  attested. 

39.  The  .pelican  is,  I  believe,  the  bird  so  libelled,  by  the 
imputation  of  feeding  her  chickens  with  her  blood. 

40.  This  superstition  of  a  second-hearing  (for  I  never  met 
with  downright  second-sight  in  the  Eiist)  fell  once  under 
my  own  observation. —  On  my  third  journey  to  Cape  Colonna, 
early  in  ISll,  as  we  passed  through  the  defile  that  leads  from 
the  hamlet  between  Keratia  and  Colonna,  I  observed  Dervish 
Tahiri  riding  rather  out  of  the  path,  and  leaning  his  head  upon 
his  hand,  as  if  in  pain.  I  rode  up  and  inquired.  "  We  are  in 
jjeril,"  he  answered.  "  What  peril?  we  are  not  now  in  Albania 
nor  in  the  passes  to  Ephesus,  Messalunghi,  or  Lepanto;  there 
are  jjlenty  of  us,  well  armed,  and  the  Choriates  have  not  cou- 
rage to  he  thieves."—"  True,  Aiiendi,  but  nevertheless  the 
shot  is  ringing  in  my  ears" — "The  shot!  not  a  tophaike  has 
been  fired  this  morning." — "I  hear  it  notwithstanding — Bom 
Bom — as  plain  as  I  hear  jour  voice" — "  Psha." — "  As  you 
.ple-ase,  Allendi ;  if  it  is  written,  so  it  will  be." — I  left  this  quick- 
eared  predestinarian,  and  rode  up  to  Baslli,  his  Christian  com- 
patriot, whose  ears,  (hough  not  at  all  prophetic,  by  no  means 
relished  the  intelligence.  We  all  arrived  at  Colonna,  remained 
some  hours,  and  returned  leisurely,  saying  a  variety  of  brilliant 
thuigs,  in  more  languages  than  spoiled  the  building  of  Babel, 
upon  the  mistaken  seer:  Romaic,  Arnaout,  Turkish,  Italian, 
and  English  were  all  exercised,  in  various  conceits,  ujkui 
llie  uniortunate  Mussulman.  While  we  were  contempla- 
ting the  beautiful  prosect,  Dervish  was  occupied  about  tbp 
columns. — I  thought  he  was  deranged  into  an  antiquarian,  and 
asked  him  if  he  h.id  become  a  "  Palao-casfro"  miin  :  "No," 
said  he,  "  but  these  pillars  will  be  uselul  in  making  a  stand  :" 
and  aihled  other  remarks,  which  at  least  evinced  his  own  belief 
in  his  troublesome  faculty  ni  fon-hcuring.  On  our  return  lo 
Alliens,  we  heard  from  Leone  (a  prisoner  set  ashore  some  daj-s 
after)  of  the  intended  attack  of  the  Mainotes^  mentioned,  witJi 
the  cause  of  its  not  taking  place,  in  the  notes  to  Childe  Harold, 
Canto  H. — I  was  at  some  pains  to  question  the  man,  and  he 
described  the  dresses,  arms,  and  marks  of  the  horses  of  our 
party  so  accurately,  that,  with  other  circumstances,  we  could 
not  doubt  of /«■*  having  been  in  "villainous  company,"  and 
ourselves  in  a  bad  neighbourhood.     Dervish  became  a  sooth- 

2  E 


326  KOTES     TO    THE    GIAOUR. 

5;;yer  for  life,  and  I  dare  siiy  is  now  hearinoj  more  niusquefrj' 
llinn  ev«r  will  be  fired,  to  the  great  refreshment  of  tiie  Arnc- 
outs  of  Berat  and  his  native  mountains. — I  shall  mention  one 
trait  more  of  this  singular  race.  In  March,  1811,  a  remarkably 
stout  and  active  Arnaout  came  (I  believe  the  fiftieth  on  the 
5-iime  errand)  to  offer  himself  as  an  attendant,  which  was  de- 
rlined:  "Well,  Affendi,"  quoth  he,  "may  you  live! — you 
would  have  found  me  useful.  I  shall  leave  the  town  for  tlie 
hills  to-morrow  ;  in  the  winter  1  return,  perhaps  you  will  then 
receive  me."  Dervish,  who  was  present,  remarked  as  a  thing 
of  course,  and  of  no  conseqence,  "  In  the  mean  time  he  will 
join  the  Klephtes,"  (robbers,)  which  was  true  to  the  letter. 
If  not  cut  oil",  they  come  down  in  the  winter,  and  pass  it  un- 
molested in  some  town,  where  they  are  often  as  well  known 
as  their  exploits. 

41.  The  monk's  sermon  is  omitted.  It  seems  to  have  had  so 
little  effect  upon  the  patient,  that  it  could  have  no  hopes  from 
the  reader.  It  may  be  sufficient  to  sa)-,  that  it  was  of  a  custo- 
mary length  (as  may  be  perceived  from  the  interruptions  aud 
uneasiness  of  the  penitent,)  and  was  delivered  in  the  usual 
tone  of  all  orthodox  preachers. 

42.  "  Symar,"— Shroud. 

43.  The  circumstance  to  which  the  above  story  relates  \vi\f- 
not  very  uncommon  in  Turkey.  A  few  years  ago,  the  wife  of 
Mucthar  Pacha  complained  to  his  father  of  his  son's  supposed 
infidelity ;  he  asked  with  whom  ;  and  she  had  the  liarbarily 
to  give  in  a  list  of  the  twelve  handsomest  women  in  Ya- 
iiina.  They  were  seized,  fastened  up  in  sacks,  and  drowned 
in  the  lake  the  same  niglit !  One  of  the  guards  who  was 
l)resent  inlbrmed  me,  that  not  one  of  the  victims  uttered  a 
cry,  ov  shewed  a  symptom  of  terror  at  so  sudden  a  wrench 
"  from  all  we  know,  from  all  we  love."  The  fate  of  Phrosine, 
the  fairest  of  this  sacrifice,  is  the  subject  of  many  a  Romaic 
and  Arnaout  ditty.  The  story  in  tiie  text  is  one  told  of  a 
young  Venetian  many  years  ago,  and  now  nearly  forgotten. 
X  heard  it  by  accident  recited  by  one  of  the  coffee-house  story- 
tellers, who  abound  in  tlie  Levant,  and  sing  or  recite  their 
narratives.  The  additions  and  interpolations  by  the  translator 
will  be  easily  distinguished  from  the  rest  by  the  want  of  Eastern 
Imagery ;  and  1  regret  that  my  memory  has  retained  so  few 
fragments  of  the  original. 

For  the  contents  of  some  of  the  notes  I  am  iiidebted  partly 
to  D'Herbelot,  and  partly  to  that  eastern,  and,  as  Mr.  Weber 
justly  entitles  it,  "sublime  tale,"  the  "  Caliph  Vathek."  I 
*o  not  know  from  what  source  the  author  of  that  singular 


NOTES   TO   THE   GIAOUR.  .327 

volume  may  Lave  drawn  his  materialf? ;  some  of  his  incidents 
are  lo  be  found  in  the  "  Bibliotheqiie  Orientale;"  but  lor 
correctness  ot  costume,  beauty  of  description,  and  power  of 
imagination,  it  far  surpasses  all  European  imifations;  and  bears 
such  marks  of  originality,  that  those  who  have  visited  the  East 
will  find  some  difficulty  in  believing  it  to  be  more  than  a  trati-;- 
lation.  As  an  Eastern  tale,  even  Rasselas  must  bow  before  it: 
his  "  Happy  Valley"  wiil  not  bear  a  comparison  with  th« 
"  Hall  of  Eblis." 


END   OP   THE   eiAOUB. 


TO 

THOMAS   MOORE,  ESQ. 


My    Br.iR   MOOKE, 

i  DEDICATE  to  you  llie  liiJ-t    production  with  which  I  shall 
trespass  on  public  patienc?,  and  your  indulgence,  lor   some 
years;  and  I  own  that  I  feel  anxious  to  avail  myself  of  1h^s 
latest  and  only  opportunity  of  adorning  my  pages  with  a  name, 
'.-onsecrated  by  unshaken  public  principle,   and  the  most  un- 
doubted and  various  talents.      While  Ireland  ranks  yon  among 
lb?  ^iTiest  of  her  patriots;  while  j-ou  stand  alone  the  first  of 
her  hards  in  her  estimation,  and  Britain  repeats  and  ratifies  the 
decree,  permit  one,  whose  only  regret,  since  our  first  acquain- 
tance, has  been  the  years  he  had  lost  before  it  commenced,  to 
add  the  humble  but  sincere  suflrage  of  friendship,  to  the  voice 
of  more  than  one  nation.     It  will  at  least  prove  to  you,  that 
I  have  neither  forgotten  the  gratification  derived  from  your 
society,  nor  abandoned  the  prospect  of  its  renewal,  whenever 
your  leisure  or  inclination  allows  you  to  atone  to  j"our  friends 
for  too  long  an   absence.     It  is  said  among  those  friends,  I 
trust  truly,  that  you  are  engaged  in  the  composition  of  a  poem 
'  whosi^  scene  will  be  laid  in  the  East ;  ncie  can  do  those  scenes 
«o  much  justice.     The  wrongs  of  your  own  country,  the  mag- 
nificent and  fiery  spirit  of  her  sons,  the  beauty  and  feeling  of 
her  da\ighters,  may  there  be  found ;  and  Collins,  when  he  de- 
nominated his  Oriental  his  Irish  Eclogues,  was  not  aware  how 
true,  was  a  part  of  his  parallel.     Your  imagination  will  create 
a  warmer  sun,  and  less  clouded  sky  ;  but  wlldness,  tenderness, 
and  originality  are  part  of  your  national  claim  of  oriental  de- 
scent, to  which  you  have  already  thus  far  proved  your  title. 
more  clearly  than  the  most  zealous  of  your   country's  anti- 
quarians. 

Mny  I  add  a  few  wordn  on  a  subject  on  which  all  men  ar« 
f'lpposed  to  be  fluent,  and  none  agreeable? — Self.  I  have 
written  mufh,  and  published  more  than  enough  to  demand  a 
longer  silence  than  I  now  meditate  ;  b\it  for  .some  years  to 
<'om?  it  is  my  intention  to  tempt  no  further  the  award  of 
*'  (iods,  men,  nor  columns."  In  the  present  romposilion  I 
have  attempted  not  the  most  difllc\ilt,  but,  perhaps,  ihe  best 
adapted  measure  to  our  language,  llie  good  old  and  now  ne- 
glected hcroifc  couplet.  The  stanza  of  Spencer  is  perhaps  too 
slow  and  di^ified   for  narrative  ;  though,  I  confess,  irt  is  the 

2  E  2 


338  DEDICATlOjr. 

meafiure  most  after  m)'  own  heart :  Scott  alone,  of  the  present 
generation,  has  hitherto  completely  triumphed  over  the  fatal 
facility  of  the  oclo-syllabic  verse ;  and  this  is  not  the  least 
victory  of  his  fertile  and  mighty  p^cnias  :  in  blank  verse,  Mil- 
ton, Thomson,  and  our  dramatists,  are  the  beacons  that  shine 
along  the  deep,  but  warn  us  from  the  rough  and  barren  rock 
©n  which  they  are  kindled.  The  heroic  couplet  is  not  the 
most  popular  measure  certainly  ;  but  as  I  did  not  deviate  into 
t!ie  other  from  a  wish  to  flatter  what  is  called  public  opinion, 
1  shall  quit  it  without  i'urther  apology,  and  take  my  chance 
once  more  with  that  versification,  in  which  I  have  hitherto 
published  nothing  but  compositions  whose  former  circulation 
is  part  of  my  present,  and  will  be  of  my  future  regret. 

\V'ith  regard  to  my  story,  and  stories  in  general,  I  should 
have  been  glad  to  have  rendered  njy  personages  more  perfect 
and  amiable,  if  possible,  inasmuch  as  I  havt*  been  sometimes 
criticised,  and  considered  no  le.s.s  responsible  for  their  deeds, 
and  qualities  than  if  all  had  been  personal.  Be  \t  so— if  I  have 
deviated  into  the  gloomy  vanity  of  "  drawing  from  self,"  the 
pictures  are  probably  like,  since  they  are  unfavourable  ;  and  if 
not,  those  who  know  me  are  undeceived,  and  those  who  do 
not,  I  have  little  interest  in  undeceiving.  I  have  no  particular 
desire  that  any  but  my  acquaintance  should  think  the  author 
better  than  the  beings  of  his  imagining  ;  but  I  cannot  help  a 
little  surprise,  and  perhaps  amusement,  at  some  odd  critical 
exceptions  in  the  present  instance,  when  I  see  severa^bards 
(far  more  deserving,  I  allow)  in  very  reputable  plight,  and 
quite  exempted  from  all  participation  in  the  faults  of  those 
heroes,  who,  nevertheless,  might  be  found  with  little  more 
morality  than  "  Tiie  Giaour,"  and  perhaps — but  no— I  must 
admit  Childe  Harold  to  be  a  very  repulsive  person;ige  ;  and  as 
to  his  identity,  those  v^•ho  like  It  must  give  him  whatever 
•'  alias"  they  please. 

If,  however,  it  were  worth  while  to  remove  the  impression, 
it  might  be  of  some  service  to  me,  that  the  man  who  is  alike 
the  delight  of  his  readers  and  his  friends,  the  poet  of  all  circles, 
and  the  idol  of  his  own,  permits  me  here  and  elsewhere  tu 
sabscribe  myself, 

most  truly, 

and  adectionately, 

his  obedient  servant, 

BYRON. 
January  2,  181 'I. 


®!)^  €m*0mv< 


A   TAIiE. 


— «»*»»♦♦< — 


CANTO    I. 


-I  suoi  pensieriin  lui  dormir  non  ponno." 

Tasso,  Canto  decimo,  Gerusalcmme  LiberaUt- 

-nessum  mnc;i;;ior  dolore, 


"  Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 

"'Nella  miseria, " 

Dante. 


I. 

"  Oe'p.  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea, 
"Our  thoughts  as  boundless,  and  our  souls  as  free, 
"  Far  as  the  breeze  can  bear,  the  billows  foam, 
"  Survey  our  empire,  and  beholil  our  home  I 
"These  are  our  realms,  no  limits  to  their  sway  — 
"  Our  flag  the  sceplre  all  who  meet  obej'. 
"  Our's  the  wild  life  in  tumult  still  to  range 
"  From  (oil  to  rest,  and  joy  in  every  change. 
"  Oh,  who  can  tell  ?  not  thou,  luxurious  slave  ! 
"  Whose  soul  would  sicken  o'er  the  heaving  wave; 
"  Not  thou,  vain  lord  of  w-;intonness  and  ease  ! 
"  Whom  slumber  soothes  not— pleasure  cannot  please- 
*'  Oh,  who  can  tell,  save  he  whose  heart  hath  tried, 
"And  danced  in  triumpli  o'er  the  waters  wide, 
"  The  exulting  sense — the  pulse's  maddening  play, 
"  That  thrills  the  wanderer  of  that  trackless  way  ? 
"  That  for  itself  can  woo  the  approaching  fight, 
"  And  turn  what  some  deem  dangor  to  delight : 


332  THE  CORSAlil. 

"  That  seeks  what  cravens  shun  with  more  than  zanl, 

"  And  wliere  the  feebler  faint— c;in  only  feel— 

«  Peel — to  the  risina;  bosom's  inmost  core, 

"  Its  hope  nwalien  and  its  spirit  soar  ? 

"  No  dveail  of  death—  if  with  us  die  our  foes— 

"  S.ivc  that  it  seems  even  duller  than  repose  : 

"  Come  when  it  will— we  snatch  the  life  of  life— 

«  ^V'lien  lost— what  recks  it— by  disease  or  strife  ? 

"  Let  him  who  crawls  enamour'd  of  decay 

"  Clins  to  liis  couch,  and  sicken  years  away  ; 

"  Heave  his  thick  breath,  and  shake  his  palsied  head  ! 

«  0„rs— the  fresh  turf,  and  not  tlie  feverish  bed. 

"  M'hilegasp  by  pasp  he  falters  fortli  his  soul, 

"  Our's  with  one  paiiej— one  bound— escapes  contru!. 

"  His  corse  may  boast  its  urn  and  narrow  cave, 

"  And  they  who  loath'd  his  life  may  gild  his  c:rave  : 

i<  Ours— are  the  tears,  though  few,  sincerely  shed, 

<'  When  Ocean  shrouds  and  sepulchres  o>ir  dead. 

"  For  us,  even  banquets  fond  regret  supply 

"  In  the  red  cup  that  crowns  our  menioiy  : 

"  And  the  brief  epitaph  in  danger's  day, 

"When  those  who  win  at  length  divide  the  prey, 

"And  cr}-,  Remembrance  saddening  o'er  each  brow 

"  How  had  the  brave  who  fell  exulted  mto!" 

ir. 

Such  were  the  notes  that  from  the  Pirate's   isle 

Around  the  kindling  watch-five  rang  the  while; 

Such  were  the  sounds  that  thriU'd  the  rocks  along 

And  unto  ears  as  rugged  seem'd  a  song  ! 

In  scatter'd  groups  upon  the  goliien  sand, 

They  game — carouse — converse — or  whet  the  braml ; 

Select  the  arms  — to  each  his  blade  assign, 

And  careless  eye  the  blood  that  dims  its  shine; 

Jvfpair  the  boat,  replace  the  helm  or  oar. 

While  others  straggling  muse  along  ihe  shore  ; 

For  the  wild  bird  the  busy  springes  set, 

Or  spread  beneath  the  sim  the  dripping  net; 

Gaze  where  some  distant  sail  a  spink  supplies, 

With  all  the  thirsting  i>ye  of  Enterprise  ; 

Tell  o'er  the  tales  of  many  a  night  of  toil, 

And  marvel  where  they  next  shall  seize  a  spoil  : 

No  matter  where — their  chief's  allotment  this  ; 

Theirs,  to  believe  no  (irey  nor  plan  amiss. 

But  who  that  Chikk?  his  name  on  every  shore 

Is  famed  and  fear'd — they  ask  and  know  no  more. 

With  these  he  mingles  not  but  to  comnuind  ; 

Few  are  his  words,  but  kee:^  bis  eye  and  ii;ind. 


THE  CORSAIR.  333 

^e'er  seasons  he  with  mirth  their  jovial  mess, 

But  they  forgive  his  silence  for  success. 

Ne'er  for  his  lip  the  purpling  cup  they  fill, 

That  goblet  passes  him  untasted  still— 

And  for  his  fare — the  rudest  of  his  crew 

Would  that,  in  turn,  have  pass'd  untasted  too; 

Earth's  coarsest  bread  ,the  garden'  homeliest  roots. 

And  scarce  the  summer  luxury  of  fruits. 

His  short  repast  in  humbleness  supply 

With  all  a  better  hermit's  board  would  scarce  deny. 

But  while  he  thus  the  grosser  joys  of  sense, 

His  mind  seems  nourish'dby  that  abstinence. 

"Steer  to  that  shore!"— they  sail.   '-Do  this  !"— 'lis  done  : 

"Now  form  and  follow  me  !" — the  spoil  is  won. 

Thus  prompt  his  accents  and  his  actions  still, 

And  all  obey  and  few  inquire  his  will ; 

To  such,  brief  answer  and  contemptuous  eye 

Convey  reproof,  nor  further  deign  reply. 

HI. 

"  A  sail ! — a  sail !" — a  pronaised  prize  to  Hope  ! 
Her  nation—  flag — how  speaks  the  telescope  ? 
No  prize,  alas  ! — but  yet  a  welcome  sail : 
The  blood-red  signal  glitters  in  the  gale- 
Yes — she  is  ours — a  home  returning  bark — 
Blow  fair,  thou  breeze  ! — she  anchors  ere  the  dark. 
Already  doubled  is  the  cape-^our  bay 
Receives  that  prow  which  proudly  spurn?  the  spray. 
How  gloriously  her  gallant  course  she  goes  ! 
Her  white  wings  flying — never  from  her  foes- 
She  walks  the  waters  like  a  thing  of  life, 
And  seems  to  dare  the  elements  to  strife. 
Who  would  not  brave  the  battle  fire — the  wreck — 
To  move  the  monarch  of  her  peopled  deck  ? 

IV. 

Hoarse  o'er  her  side  the  rustling  cable  rings ; 

The  sails  are  furl'd  ;  and  anchoring  round  she  swings  ; 

And  gathering  loiterers  on  the  land  discern 

Her  boat  descending  from  the  latticed  stern. 

'Tis  mann'd— the  oars  keep  concert  to  the  strand, 

Till  grates  her  keel  upon  the  shallow  sand. 

Hail  to  the  welcome  shout ! — the  friendly  speech  ! 

When  hand  grasps  hand  uniting  on  the  beach  ; 

The  smile,  the  (luestion,  and  Un;  (juick  reply. 

And  the  heart's  promise  of  festivity  ;  ^ 


■,m  THE  CORSAIR. 


The  tidings  .«pread,  and  gathering  grows  the  crowd: 

The  hum  of  voices,  and  the  laughter  loud, 

And  woman's  gentler  anxious  tone  is  heard — 

Friends, — husbands' — lovers'  names  in  each  dear  word  ; 

"  Oh  I  are  they  safe  ?  we  nsli  not  of  success — 

"  But  shall  we  see  them  ?  will  their  accents  bless  ? 

"  From  where  th»  battle  roars — the  billows  chafe — 

"  They  doubtless  boldly  did — but  who  are  safe  ? 

"  Here  let  them  haste  to  gladden  and  surprise, 

"And  kiss  the  doubt  from  these  delighted  eyes  I" 

vr. 

"Where  is  our  chief  ?  for  him  we  bear  report — 

"And  doubt  that  joy — which  hails  our  coming — short ; 

"  Yet  thus  sincere — 'tis  cheering,  though  so  brief; 

"  But,  Juan  !  instant  guide  us  to  our  chief: 

"  Our  greeting  paid,  we'll  feast  on  our  return, 

"  And  all  shail  hear  what  each  may  wish  to  learn." 

Ascending  slowly  by  the  rock-hewn  way, 

To  where  his  watch-tower  beetles  o'er  the  bay, 

By  bushy  brake  and  wild  flowers  blossoming, 

And  freshness  breathing  from  each  silver  spring, 

AVhose  scatter'd  streams  from  granite  basins  burst, 

Leap  into  life,  and  sparkling  woo  your  thirst ; 

From  crag  to  crag  they  mount — Near  yonder  cave, 

What  lonely  straggler  looks  along  the  wave  ? 

In  pensive  posture  leaning  on  the  brand, 

Not  oft  a  resting-statr  to  that  red  hand  ? 

"  'Tis  he — 'tis  Conrad— here — as  wont — alone  ; 

"  On^Juan  ! — on — and  make  our  purpose  known. 

"  The  bark  hn  views — and  tell  him  we  would  greet 

"  His  ear  with  tidings  he  must  (quickly  meet  : 

"  U'e  dare  not  yet  approach — lliou  know'st  liis  mood, 

"  When  strange  or  uninvited  st/'ps  intrude." 

VTI. 

Him  Juan  sought,  and  told  of  their  intent — 
He  spake  not — but  a  sign  express'd  assent. 
These  .Tuau  calls — they  come — to  their  salute 
He  bends  him  slightly,  but  liis  lips  are  mute. 
"  These  letters.  Chief,  are  from  the  Greek— the  spy, 
"  Who  still  proclaims  our  spoil  or  peril  nigh  : 
"  Whate'er  his  tidings,  we  can  well  report 
"Much  that" — "Peace,  peace!" — he  cuts  tiieir  prating 
shorl. 


THE  CORSAIR.  SSr. 

Wondering  tbey  turn,  abash'd,  while  each  to  each 
Conjecture  whispers  in  his  muttering  speech  : 
Thev  watch  his  glance  with  many  a  stealing  look, 
To  gather  how  that  eye  the  tidings  took  ; 
But  this,  as  if  he  guess'd,  with  head  aside, 
Perchance  from  some  emotion,  doubt,  or  pride. 
He  read  the  scroll— "  My  tablets,  Juan,  hark — 
"  ^^'here  is  Gonsalvo  ?" 

"  In  the  anchor'd  bark." 
"  There  let  liim  stay — to  him  this  order  bear 
"  Back  to  your  duty  — for  my  course  pr<;pare  : 
"  Myself  this  enterprise  to  night  will  share." 
"  To-night,  Lord  Conrad?" 

"  Ay  !  at  set  of  sun  : 
"  The  breeze  will  freshen  when  the  day  is  done. 
"  My  corslet — cloak — one  hour — and  we  are  gone. 
"  Sling  on  thy  bugle — see  that  free  from  i  itst 
."  My  carbine-lock  springs  wortliy  of  my  ;.  .st  ; 
"  Be  the  edge  sharpen'd  of  my  boarding-braiid, 
"  And  give  its  guard  more  room  to  fit  my  iiand. 
"  This  let  the  Armourer  with  speed  disjiose  ; 
"  Last  time,  it  more  fatigued  my  arm  than  foes: 
"  Mark  that  the  signal-gun  be  duly  fired, 
"  To  tell  us  when  the  hour  of  stay's  expued." 

vin. 

They  make  obeisance,  and  retire  in  haste, 

Too  soon  to  seek  again  the  watery  waste  : 

Vet  they  repine  not — so  that  Conrad  guides, 

And  who  dare  question  aught  that  he  decides  ? 

That  man  of  loneliness  and  mystery, 

Scarce  seen  to  smile,  and  seldom  heard  to  sigh  ; 

Wliose  name  njipals  the  fiercest  of  his  crew. 

And  tints  each  swarthy  cheek  with  sallower  hue  5 

Still  sways  their  souls  with  that  commanding  art 

That  dazzles,,  leads,  jet  chills  the  vulgar  heart. 

What  is  that  spell,  that  thus  his  lawless  train 

Confess  and  envj ,  yet  oppose  in  vain  ? 

^V'hat  should  it  be,  that  thus  their  faith  can  bind  ? 

The  power  of  Thought — the  magic  of  the  Mind  ! 

LiidvM  with  success,  assumed  and  kept  with  skill. 

That  moulds  another's  weakness  to  its  will ; 

^V^ields  with  their  hands,  but,  still  to  these  unknown. 

Makes  even  their  mightiest  deeds  appear  his  own. 

Such  hath  it  been — shall   be — beneath  the  sun 

The  many  still  must  labour  for  the  one  ! 

'Tis  Nature's  doom— but  let  the  wretch  who  toils 

Accuse  not,  hate  not  liiin  who  wears  the  spoils. 


136  THE  CORSAIR. 

Oh  !  if  ho  knew  the  weitrht  of  splendid  chains, 
How  light  the  balance  of  Lis  humbler  pains  ! 

IX. 

I'niike  the  heroes  of  each  ancient  race, 

Demons  in  act,  but  Gods  at  least  in  face, 

In  Conrad's  form  seems  little  to  admire. 

Though  his  dark  eyebrow  shades  a  glance  of  fire  : 

Robust  but  not  Herculean— to  the  sight 

Ko  giant  frame  sets  forth  his  common  height; 

Yet^  in  the  whole,  wlio  paused  to  look  again. 

Saw  more  than  marks  the  crowd  of  vulgar  men  ; 

They  gaze  and  marvel  how — and  still  confess 

That  thus  it  is,  but  why  they  they  cannot  guess. 

Sun-burnt  liis  cheek,  his  forehead  high  and  pale 

The  sable  curls  in  wild  profusion  veil ; 

And  oft  perforce  his  rising  lip  reveals 

The  haughtier  thought  it  curbs,  but  scarce  conceals. 

Though  smooth  his  voice,  and  calm  his  general  mien, 

Still  seems  there  something  he  would  not  have  seen  : 

His  features'  deepening  lines  and  varying  hue 

At  times  attracted,  yet  perplexed  the  view. 

As  if  within  that  murkiness  of  mind 

Work'd  feelings  fearful,  and  yet  undefined; 

vSuch  might  it  be — that  none  could  truly  tell — 

Too  close  inquiry  Ills  slern  glaiice  would  quell. 

There  breathe  but  few  whose  aspect  might  defy 

The  full  encounter  of  his  searching  eye  : 

He  had  the  skill,  when  Cunning's  gaze  would  seek 

To  probe  his  heart  and  watch  his  changing  cheek. 

At  once  the  observer's  purpose  to  esp)-. 

And  on  himself  roll  back  his  scrutiny. 

Lest  he  to  Conrad  rather  should  betray 

Some  secret  lliouglit,  than  drag  that  chief's  to  day. 

There  was  a  laugiiiiig  Devil  in  his  sneer, 

Tliat  raised  emotions  both  of  rage -and  fear  ; 

And  where  his  frown  of  hatred  darkly  fell, 

Hope  withering  fled—  and  Mercy  sigh'd  farewell ! 

X> 

Slight  are  the  outward  signs  of  evil  thought, 
Within — ^witljin — 'twas  there  the  spirit  wrouo:].! ! 
LoVe  shows  all  changes— Hate,  Ambition,  Guile, 
.Betray  no  lurther  than  the  bitter  smile  ; 
Tiie  lip's  least  curl,  the  lightest  paleness  thrown 
Along  the  goveru'd  aspect,  speak  alone 


THE  CORSAIR.  337 

Of  deeper  passions  ;  and  to  judge  their  mien, 
He,  who  would  see,  must  be  himself  unseen. 
Then — with  the  hurried  tread,  the  upward  eye, 
The  clenched  hand,  the  pause  of  agony, 
That  listens,  starting,  lest  the  step  too  near 
Approach  intrusive  on  that  mood  of  fear : 
Then — with  each  feature  working  from  the  heart. 
With  feelings  loosed  to  strengthen— not  depart : 
That  rise — convulse — contend — that  freeze,  or  glow, 
Flush  in  the  cheek,  or  damp  upon  the  brow  ; 
Then — Stranger  !  if  thou  canst,  and  tremblest  not, 
Behold  his  soul — the  rest  that  soothes  his  lot ! 
Mark — how  that  lone  and  blighted  bosom  sears 
The  scathing  thought  of  execrated  years  ! 
Behold — but  who  hath  seen,  or  e'er  shall  «ee, 
Man  as  himself—  the  secret  spirit  free ; 

XI. 

Yet  was  not  Conrad  thus  by  Nature  sent 
To  lead  the  guilty — guilt's   worst  instrument — 
His  soul  was  changed,  before  his  deeds  had  driven 
Him  forth  to  war  with  man  and  forfeit  heaven. 
Warp'd  by  the  world  in  Disappointment's  school. 
In  words  too  wise  in  conduct  there  a  fool ; 
Too  firm  to  yield,  and  far  too  proud  to  stoop, 
Doom'd  by  his  very  virtues  for  a  dupe. 
He  cursed  those  virtues  as  the  cause  of  ill, 
And  not  the  traitors  who  betray'd  him  still ; 
Nor  deem'd  that  gifts  bestowed  on  better  men 
Had  left  him  joy,  and  means  to  give  again. 
Fear'd — shunn'd — belied — ere  youth  had  lost  her  force. 
He  hated  man  too  much  to  ieel  remorse. 
And  thought  the  voice  of  wrath  a  sacred  call, 
To  pay  the  injuries  of  some  on  all. 
He  knew  himself  a  villain — but  lie  deem'd 
The  rest  no  better  than  the  thing  they  seem'd  ; 
And  scorn'd  the  best  as  hypocrites  who  hid 
Those  deeds  the  bolder  spirit  plainly  did. 
He  knew  himself  detested,  but  he  knew 
The  hearts  that  loathed  him,  crouch'd  and  dreaded  too. 
Lone,  wild,  and  strange,  he  stood  alike  exempt 
From  all  affection  and  from  all  contempt  : 
His  name  could  sadden,  and  Lis  acts  surprise; 
But  they  that  fear'd  him  tiared  jiot  to  despise  : 
Man  spurns  the  worm,  but  pauses  ere  he  wake 
The  slumbering  venom  of  the  folded  snake  : 
The  first  m;iy  turn — but  not  avenge  the  blow  : 
The  lust  expires — but  leaves  no  living  foe  j 

2  F 


338  THE  CORSAIR. 

Fast  to  the  doom'd  ofiender's  form  it  clings, 
And  he  may  crush — not  conquer — still  it  stings  ! 

XII. 

None  are  all  evil— quickening  round  his  heart, 

One  softer  feeling  would  not  yet  depart ; 

Oft  could  he  sneer  at  others  as  beguiled 

By  passions  worthy  of  a  fool  or  child  : 

Yet  'gainst  that  passion  vainly  still  he  strove, 

And  even  in  him  it  asks  the  name  of  Love  ! 

Yes,  it  was  love— unchangeable — unchanged. 

Felt  but  one  from  whom  he  never  ranged  ; 

TJliough  fairest  captives  daily  met  his  eye, 

He  sliunn'd,  nor  sought,  b  it  coldly  pass'd  them  by  : 

Though  many  a  beauty  droop'd  in  prison'd  bower, 

None  ever  sooth'd  bis  most  unguarded  hour. 

Yes — it  was  Love — if  thoughts  of  tenderness. 

Tried  in  temptation,  strengthened  by  distress. 

Unmoved  by  absence,  firm  in  every  clime. 

And  yet — Oh  more  than  all !  untired  by  time  ; 

AVhich  nor  defeated  hope,  nor  baffled  wile, 

Could  render  sullen  were  she  near  to  smile. 

Nor  rage  could  fire,  nor  sickness  fret  to  vent 

On  her  one  murmur  of  his  discontent ; 

Which  still  would  meet  with  joy,  with  calmness  part. 

Lest  that  his  look  of  grief  should  reach  her  heart; 

Which  nought  removed,  nor  menacetl  to  remove — 

If  there  be  love  in  mortals — this  was  love  ! 

He  was  a  villain — aj- — reproaches  shower 

On  him— but  not  the  passion,  nor  its  power. 

Which  only  proved,  all  other  virtues  gone. 

Not  guilt  itself  could  quench  this  loveliest  one ! 

xin. 

He  paused  a  moment— till  his  hastening  men 

Pass'd  the  first  winding  downward  to  the  glen. 

"  Strange  tidings  !— many  a  peril  liave  I  past, 

"Nor  know  I  why  this  next  appears  the  last ! 

"  Yet  so  my  heart  forebodes,  I  must  not  fear, 

"  Nor  shall  my  followers  find  me  ialter  here. 

"  'Tis  rash  to  meet,  but  surer  death  to  wait 

"  Till  here  they  hunt  us  to  undoubted  fate  ; 

"  And,  if  my  plan  i)ut  hold,  and  Fortune  smile, 

<'  We'll  furnish  mourners  for  our  funeral  pile. 

"  Ay — lei,  them  slumber — peaceful  be  their  dreams 

"  Mt)rn  ne'er  awoke  them  with  such  brilliant  beams 

''  As  kindle  high  to-night  (but  blow  thou  breeze  !) 

"  To  warm  these  slow  avengers  of  the  seas. 


THR  CORSAIR.  330 

"  Now  to  Medora — oh  m)'  sinking  heart, 

"  Lonpjniay  her  own  be  lighter  than  thou  art ! 

"Yet  was  I  brave-mean  lioast  where  all  are  brave  ! 

"Ev'n  insects  sting  for  aught  the}'  seek  to  save. 

"This  common  courage  which  with  brutes  we  share, 

"  That  owes  its  deadliest  efforts  to  despair, 

"Small  merit  claims— but  'twas  my  nobler  hope 

"  To  teach  my  lew  with  numbers  still  to  cope  ; 

"  Long  have  I  led  them— not  to  vainly  bleed  : 

"  No  medium  now — we  perish  or  succeed  ! 

"  So  let  it  be — it  irks  not  me  to  die  ; 

"  But  thus  to  urge  them  whence  they  cannot  fl}'. 

"  My  lot  hath  long  had  little  of  my  care, 

"  But  chafes  my  pride  thus  batlled  in  the  snare  : 

"  Is  this  my  skill  ?  my  craft  ?  to  set  at  last 

"  Hope,  power,  and  life  upon  a  single  cast? 

"  Oh  Fate  !  accuse  thy  folly,  not  thy  fate — 

"  She  may  redeem  thee  still— nor  yet  too  late." 

XIV. 

Thus  with  himself  communion  held  he,  till 
He  reach'd  the  summit  of  his  tower-crown 'd  hill : 
There  at  the  portal  paused — for  wild  and  soft 
He  heard  those  accents  never  heard  too  oft ; 
Through  the  high  lattice  far  yet  sweet  they  rung, 
And  these  the  notes  his  bird  of  beauty  sung  : 

1. 

"  Deep  in  my  soul  that  tender  secret  dwells. 

Lonely  and  lost  to  light  for  evermore. 
Save  when  to  tliine  my  lieart  responsive  swells, 

Then  trembles  into  silence  as  before. 


"  There  in  the  centre  a  sepulchral  lamp 
Burns  the  slow  flame,  eternal  but  unseen  ; 

Which  not  the  darkness  of  despair  can  damp. 
Though  vain  its  ray  as  it  had  never  been. 


"  Remi^mber  me — Oh  !   jia^s  not  thou  my  grave 
Without  one  thought  whose  relics  thur<'  recline  ; 

The  only  pang  my  bosom  dare  not  brave 
Must  be  to  iind  forgetfulness  in  tliine. 


340  THE  CORSAIR. 


"  My  foiulest— faititest — latest  accents  hear — 
Grief  for  the  dead  not  Virtue  can  reprove  ; 

Then  give  me  all  I  ever  usk'd — a  tear, 

The  first— last— sole  reward  of  so  much  love  !" 

lie  pass'd  the  portal— cross'd  the  corridore, 

And  reacli'd  tlie  chamber  as  the  strain  gave  o'er  : 

"  My  own  Medora  !  sure  thy  song  is  sad — " 

"  In  Conrad's  absence  wouldst  thou  have  it  glad  ? 

"  Without  thine  ear  to  listen  to  my  lay 

"  Still  must  my  song,  my  thoughts,  my  soul  betray  : 

"  Still  must  each  accent  to  my  bosom  suit," 

"  My  heart  unhush'd— although  my  lips  were  mute  ! 

"  Oh  !  many  a  night  on  this  lone  couch  reclined, 

"  My  dreaming  fe"ar  with  storms  hath  wing'd  the  wind, 

"  And  deem'd  the  breath  that  faintly  fann'd  thy  sail 

"  The  murmuring  prelude  of  the  ruder  gale  ; 

"  Though  soft,  it  seem'd  the  low  prophetic  dirge, 

"  That  mourn'd  thee  floating,  on  the  savage  surge  : 

"  Still  would  I  rise  to  rouse  the  beacon  fire, 

"  Lest  spies  less  true  should  let  the  blaze  expire  ; 

«  And  many  a  restless  hour  outwatch'd  each  star, 

"  And  morning  came— and  still  thou  wert  afar. 

"  Oh  !  how  the  chill  blast  on  my  bosom  blew, 

"  And  day  broke  dreary  on  my  troubled  view, 

"  And  still  I  gazed  and  gazed— and  not  a  prow 

"  Was  granted  to  my  lears— my  truth— my  vow  ! 

"  At  length— "twas  noon— I  hail'd  and  and  blest  the  mast 

"  That  met  my  sight— it  near'd— Alas  !  it  past  ! 

"  Another  came— Oh  God  !   'twas  thine  at  last ! 

"  Would  that  those  days  were  over !  wilt  thou  ne'er, 

"  My  Conrad  !  learn  the  joys  of  peace  to  share  ? 

*'  Sure  (hou  hast  more  than  wealth,  and  many  a  home 

"  As  bright  as  this  invites  us  not  to  roam : 

"  Thou  know'st  it  is  not  peril  that  I  fear, 

"  I  only  tremble  when  thou  art  not  here  ; 

"  Then  not  for  mine,  but  that  far  dearer  life, 

"  Which  flies  from  love  and  languishes  for  strife — 

"  How  strange  that  heart,  to  me  so  tender  still, 

"Should  war  with  nature  and  its  better  will !" 

"  Yea,  stnmge  indeed— that  heart  hath  long  been  changed  ; 
"  Worm-like  'twas  trampled— adder-like  avenged, 
"  Without  one  hope  on  earth  beyond  thy  love, 
"  And  scarce  a  glimpse  of  mercy  from  above. 


THE  CORSAIR.  311 

"  Yet  Ihe  same  feeling  whicli  Hum  doslcoiiJenin, 
*'  My  ver}-  love  to  tliee  is  Imte  to  I  hem, 
"  So  closely  mingling  here,  th.tt  diseiitwineJ. 
"  I  cease  to  love  thee  when  I  lovetl  niaiikiiiil  : 
"  Yet  dread  not  this — the  proof  of  all  the  p.ist 
"  Assures  Hie  future  that  my  love  will  last ; 
"  But— Oh,  Me  lora  !  nerve  thy  ejentle  heart, 
"  This  hour  again — but  not  for  long— we  part." 

"  This  hour  we  part!— my  heart  forelio  led  thi>; : 
"  Thus  ever  fade  my  fairy  dreams  of  bliss. 
"  This  liour — it  cannot  be — this  hour  away  I 
"  Yon  bark  hath  hardly  anchor'd  in  the  bay : 
"  Her  consort  still  is  absent,  and  her  crew 
"  Have  need  of  rest  before  the}'  toil  anew  : 
"  My  love  !  thou  mock'st  my  weakness  ;  and  woulJst  steel 
"  My  breast  before  the  time  when  it  must  feel ; 
"But  trifle  now  no  more  with  my  distress, 
"Such  mirth  hath  less  of  play  than  bitterness. 
"  Be  silent,  Conrad  !  —  dearest !  come  and  share 
"  The  feast  these  hands  delighted  to  prepare  ; 
"  Light  toil !  to  cull  and  dress  thy  frugal  fare  ! 
"  See,  I  have  pluck'd  tiia  fruit  that  promised  best, 
"  And  where  not  sure,  perplex'd,  but  pleased,  I  guess'J 
"  At  such  as  seem'd  the  fairest:  thrice  the  hill 
"  My  steps  have  wound  to  try  the  coolest  rill ; 
"  Yes  !   thy  sherbet  to-night  will  sweetly  flow, 
"  See  how  it  sparkles  in  its  vase  of  snow  ! 
"  The  grspes'  gay  juice  thy  bosom  never  cheers ; 
"  Thou  more  than  Moslem  when  the  cup  appears  : 
"  Think  not  I  mean  to  chide — for  I  rejoice 
"  What  others  deem  a  penance  is  thy  choice. 
"But  come,  the  board  is  spread  :   our  silver  liimp 
"  Is  trimm'd,  and  heeds  not  the  Sirocco's  damp  : 
"Then  shall  my  handmaids  Nvhile  the  time  along, 
"  And  join  with  me  the  dunce,  or  wake  the  song  ;  j 
"  Or  my  guitar,  which  still  thou  lov'st  to  hear, 
"  Shall  soothe  or  lull — or,  should  it  vex  thine  ear, 
"  We'll  turn  the  tale,  by  Ariosto  told, 
"Of  fair  Olympia loved  and  left  of  old.  (1) 
"  Why  -  thou  wert  worse  than  he  who  broke  his  vow 
"  To  that  lost  damsel,  shouldst  thou  leave  me  now  ; 
"  Or  even  that  traitor  chief— I've  seen  thee  smile, 
"  When  the  clear  sky  show'd  Ariadne's  Isle, 
"  Which  I  have  pointed  from  these  clitls  the  while  : 
"  And  thus  half  sportive,  half  in  fear,  I  said, 
"  Lest  Time  should  raise  that  doubt  to  more  than  divjad, 
"  Thus  Conrad,  too,  will  quit  me  for  the  main  : 
"  And  he  deceived  me — for — he  came  again  '" 
2  F  2 


342  THE  CORSAIR. 

*    "  Again — iigain — and  oft  again — my  love  ! 
"  It  tliere  be  life  below,  and  hope  above, 
"  He  will  return — bnt  now,  the  moments  bring 
'■  The  time  of  parting  with  redoubled  wing  : 
"  The  whj — the  where— what  I)oots  it  now  to  tell  ? 
•'Since  all  nmstend  in  that  wild  Mord — farewell  ! 
'•Yet  woulil  I  fain — did  time  allow — disclose  — 
"  Fear  not — these  are  no  formidable  foes  ; 
'•  And  here  shall  watch  a  more  than  wonted  guard, 
<'  For  sudden  siege  and  long  defence  prepared : 
"  Nor  be  thou  lonely — though  thy  lord's  away, 
"  Our  matrons  and  thy  handmaids  with  thee  stay  ; 
"And  this  thy  comfort — that,  when  next  we  meet, 
"  Security  shall  make  repose  more  sweet. 
"  List  I-  'tis  the  bugle  — Ju;m  shrilly  blew-?^ 
"  One  kiss  -  one  more— another — Oh  !  Adieu  !" 

She  rose — she  sprung — she  clung  to  his  embrace. 
Till  his  heart  heaved  beneath  her  hidden  face. 
He  dared  not  raise  to  his  that  deep-blue  eye. 
Which  downcast  droop'd  in  tearless  agony. 
Her  long  fair  hair  lay  floating^o'er  his  arms, 
In  all  the  wildness  of  dishevell'd  charms  ; 
Scarce  beat  that  bosom  where  his  image  dwelt 
So  full — that  feeling  seem'd  almost  unfelt ! 
Hark — peals  the  thunder  of  the  signal-gun  ! 
It  told  'twas  sunset — and  he  cursed  that  sun. 
Again—  again — that  form  he  madly  press'd, 
Which  mutely  clasp'd,  imploringly  caress'd  ! 
And  tottering  to  the  couch  his  bride  he  bore. 
One  moment  gazed — as  if  to  gaze  no  more  ; 
Felt — that  for  him  earth  held  but  her  alone, 
Kiss'd  her  cold  forehead — turn'd — is  Conrad  gone  ? 

XV. 

"  And  is  he  gone  ?" — on  sudden  solitude 
How  oft  that  feari'ul  question  will  intrude  I 
"  'Twas  but  an  instant  past— and  here  he  stood  ! 
"  And  now" — williout  the  portal's  porch  she  rush'd, 
And  then  at  length  her  tears  in  I'reedom  gush'd  ; 
Big — bright— and  fast,  unknown  to  her  they  fell  ; 
■    But  still  her  lips  refused  to  send — "  Farewell !" 
For  in  that  word — that  fatal  word — howe'er 
AVe  promise, — hope— believe — there  breathes  despair. 
O'er  every  feature  of  that  still,  pale  face, 
Had  sorrow  fixM  what  time  can  ne'er  erase  : 
The  tender  blue  of  that  large  loving  eye 
Grew  frozen  with  its  gaze  on  vacancy, 


THE  CORSAIR.  343 

Till— Oh,  how  far  !  — it  caught  a  glimpse  of  him, 
And  then  it  fiow'd — and  phrensied  seem'd  to  swim 
Through  those  long,  dark,  and  glistening  lashes  dew'd 
With  drops  of  sadness  oft  to  be  renew'd. 
<'  He's  gone  !" — against  her  heart  that  hand  is  driven, 
Convuls'ed  and  quick — then  gently  raised  to  heaven  ; 
She  look'd  and  saw  the  heaving  of  the  main  j 
The  white  sail  set— she  dared  not  look  again  ; 
But  turn'd  with  sickening  soul  within  the  .gate— 
"  It  is  no  dream — and  I  am  desolate  !" 

XVI. 

From  crag  to  crag  desending — swiftly  sped 

Stern  Conrad  down,  nor  once  he  turn'd  his  head  ; 

But  shrunk  whene'er  the  windings  of  his  way 

Forced  on  his  eye  what  he  would  not  suney. 

His  lone,  but  lovely  dwelling  on  the  steep. 

That  hail'd  him  first  when  homeward  from  the  deep  : 

And  she — the  dim  and  melancholy  star. 

Whose  ray  of  beauty  reach'd  him  from  afar, 

On  her  he  must  not  gaze,  he  must  not  think. 
There  he  might  rest — but  on  Destruction's  brink  : 
Yet  once  almost  he  stopp'd— and  nearly  gave 

His  fate  to  chance,  his  projects  to  the  wave  ; 

But  no — it  must  not  be— a  worthy  chief 

May  melt,  yet  not  belray  to  woman's  grief. 

He  sees  his  iKirk,  he  notes  how  fair  the  wind, 

And  sternly  gathers  all  his  might  of  mind  : 

Again  he  burries  on — and  as  he  hears 

The  clang  of  tumult  vibrate  on  his  ears, 

The  bmy  sounds,  the  bustle  of  the  shore, 

'i'he  shout,  the  signal,  and  the  dashing  oar  ; 

As  marks  his  e3e  the  seaboy  on  the  mast, 

The  anchors  rise,  the  sails  unfurling  fast, 

Tbe  waving  kerchiefs  of  the  crowd  that  urge 

That  mute  adieu  to  those  who  stem  the  surge  ; 

And  more  tlian  all,  his  blood-reg  flag  alolt. 

He  marvell'd  how  his  heart  could  seem  so  soft. 

Fire  in  his  glance,  and  wildness  in  his  breast, 

He  feels  of  all  his  former  self  possest; 

lie  bounds — he  tlies — until  his  footsteps  reach 

The  verge  where  ends  the  dill",  begins  tiie  beach, 

'J'tiere  checks  his  speed  ;  but  pauses  less  to  breathe 

'l"he  breezy  freshness  of  the  deep  beneatli, 
Than  there  his  wonted  statelier  step  renew  ; 

Nor  nish,  disturb'd  by  haste,  to  vulgar  view  : 
For  well  had  Conrad  learn'd  to  curb  the  crowd, 
By  arts  that  veil,  and  oft  preserve  the  proud  ; 


344  THE  CORSAIR. 

His  was  the  lofty  pori,  the  distant  mien, 
That  seems  to  shun  the  sight— find  awes  if  seen  : 
The  solemn  aspect,  and  the  high-born  eye, 
That  checks  low  mirth,  but  lacks  not  courtesy  ; 
All  these  he  wielded  to  command  assent : 
]Jat  where  he  wish'd  to  win,  so  well  unbent, 
That  kindness  cancell'd  fear  in  those  who  heard, 
And  others  gifts  show'd  mean  beside  his  word, 
^Vhen  echo'd  to  the  heart  as  from  his  own 
His  deep  yet  tender  melody  of  tone  : 
I}ut  such  was  foreign  to  his  wonted  mood, 
He  cared  not  what' he  soften'd,  but  subdued  ; 
The  evil  passions  of  his  youth  had  made 
Him  value  less  who  loved — than  what  obey'd. 

xvn. 

Around  him  mustering  ranged  his  ready  guard. 
Before  him  Juan  stands — "Are  all  prepared?" 

"  They  are — nay  more— embark'd  ;  tlie  latest  boat 

"  Waits  but  my  chief " 

"  My  sword,  and  my  capote. 
Soon  firmly  girded  on,  iind  lightly  slung, 
His  belt  and  cloak  were  o'er  his  shoulders  flung  : 
"  Call  Peiiro  liere  I"    He  comes— and  Conrad  bends, 
With  all  the  courtesy  he  deigns  his  iriends ; 
"  fleceive  rlirse  tablets,  and  jir-ruse  with  care, 
"  Words  of  hicrh  trust  and  tru;li  are  graven  there; 
"  Double  the  guard,  and  when  Anselmo's  bark 
"  Arrives,  let  him  alike  these  orders  mark  : 
<'  In  three  days  (serve  the  breeze)  the  sun  fhnll  shine 
"  On  our  return — till  then  all  peace  be  thine  !" 
This  said,  his  brother  Piralt  's  Land  he  wrung. 
Then  to  his  l)oat  with  haughty  gesture  sprung. 
Flash'd  tlie  dipt  oars,  and  sparkling  with  the  stroke. 
Around  the  AVaves'  phosphoric  (2)  brightness  broke  ; 
They  gain  the  vessel— on  the  deck  hestands. 
Shrieks  the  shrill  whistle— ply  the  busy  hands- 
He  marks  how  well  the  ship  hsr  helm  obe3S, 
How  gallant  all  her  crew— and  deigns  to  praise. 

His  eyes  of  pride  to  joung  Gonsalvo  turn —  *" 

Why  doth  he  start,  and  inly  seem  to  mourn  ? 

Alas  !  those  eyes  beheld  his  rocky  tower. 

And  live  a  moment  o'er  the  parting  hour  ; 

She — his  Medora — ilid  she  mark  the  prow? 

Ah  !  never  loved  he  half  so  much  as  now  ! 

liut  much  must  yet  be  done  ere  daw-n  of  day  — 

Again  he  mans  himself  and  turns  away  ; 

Down  to  the  cabin  with  Gonsalvo  beiuls. 

And  there  unfolds  his  iilaji— his  meaiis-and  ends; 


THE  CORSAIR.  345 

Before  them  burns  the  lamp,  and  spreads  the  chart, 
And  all  that  speaks  and  aids  the  naval  art ; 
They  to  the  midnight  watch  protract  debate  } 
To  anxious  ej'es  what  hour  is  ever  late  ? 
Meantime,  the  steady  breeze  serenely  blew, 
And  fast  and  falcon-like  the  vessel  flew ; 
Pass'd  the  high  headlands  of  each  clustering  isle 
To  gain  their  port — long — long  ere  morning  smile  : 
And  soon  the  night-glass  through  the  narrow  bay 
Discovers  where  the  Pacha's  galleys  lay, 
Count  they  each  sail — and  mark  how  there  supine 
The  lights  in  vain  o'er  heedless  Moslem  shine. 
Secure,  unnoted,  Conrad's  prow  pass'd  by, 
And  anchor'd  where  his  ambush  meant  to  lie  ; 
Screen'dfrom  espial  by  the  jutting  cape, 
That  rears  on  high  its  rude  fantastic  shape. 
Then  rose  his  band  to  duty — not  from  sleep — 
Equipp'd  for  deeds  alike  on  land  or  deep  : 
While  lean'd  their  leader  o'er  the  fretting  flood, 
And  calmly  talk'd — and  yet  he  talk'd  of  blood  ! 


340  THE  CORSAIR. 


STl^e  ^ov^niv* 


CANTO    II. 


"  Coiiosceste  i  dubiosi  desiri?" 

Dante. 


In  Coron's  bay  floats  many  a  galley  light, 
Through  Coron's  lattices  the  lamps  are  bright, 
For  Seyd,  the  Pacha,  makes  a  feast  to-night : 
A  feast  for  promised  triumph  yet  to  come, 
When  he  shall  drag  the  fetter'd  Rovers  home; 
This  hath  he  sworn  by  Alia  and  his  sword, 
And  faithful  to  his  firman  and  his  word. 
His  summon'd  prows  collect  along  the  coast, 
And  great  the  gathering  crews,  and  loud  the  boast : 
Already  shared  the  captives  and  the  prize, 
Though  far  the  distant  foe  they  thus  despise  ; 
'Tis  but  to  sail— no  doubt  to-morrow's  Sun 
Will  see  thi!  Pirates  bound^their  haven  won  ! 
Meantime  the  watch  may  slumber,  if  they  will, 
Nor  only  wake  to  war,  but  dreaming  kill. 
Though  all,  who  can,  disperse  on  shore  and  seek 
To  flesh  their  glowing  valour  on  the  Greek ; 
Flow  well  such  deed  becomes  the  turban'd  brave — 
To  bare  the  sabre's  edge  before  a  slave  ! 
infest  his  dwelling — but  forbear  to  slay. 
Their  arms  are  strong,  yet  merciful  to-day. 
And  do  not  deign  to  smite  because  they  may  ! 
Unless  some  gay  caprice  suggests  the  blow, 
To  keep  in  practice  for  the  coming  foe : 
Revel  and  rout  the  evening  hours  beguile. 
And  they  who  wish  to  wear  a  head  must  smile; 
For  Moslem  mouths   produce  their  choicest  cheer, 
And  hoard  their  curses,  till  the  coast  is  clear. 


THE  CORSAIR.  347 


If. 


High  in  his  hall  reclines  the  turban'd  Seyd ; 
Around — the  bearded  chiefs  he  came  to  lead. 
Removed  the  banquet,  and  the  last  pihift' — 
Forbidden  draughts,  His  said,  he  dared  lo  quaflj 
Though  to  the  rest  the  sober  berry's  juice  (3) 
The  slaves  bear  round  lor  rigid  Moslems'  use  ; 
The  long  Chibouque's  (4)  dissolving  cloud  supply, 
While  dance  the  Almas  (5)  to  wild  minstrelsy. 

The  rising  morn  will  view  the  chiefs  embark  ; 

But  waves  are  somewhat  treacherous  in  the  dark: 

And  revellers  may  more  securely  sleep 

On  silken  couch  than  o'er  the  rugged  deep  ; 

Feast  there  who  can — nor  combat  till  they  must. 

And  less  to  conquest  than  to  Korans  trust ; 

And  yet  the  mimbers  crowded  in  his  host 

Might  warrant  more  than  even  the  Pacha's  boast. 

III. 

With  cautious  reverence  from  the  outer  gate 
Slow  stalks  the  slave,  whose  office  there  to  wait, 
Bows  his  bent  head — his  hand  salutes  the  floor, 
Ere  yet  his  tongue  the  trusted  tidings  bore  : 
"  A  captive  Dervise,  froi>i  the  pirate's  nest 
,"  Escaped,  is  here  -himself  would  tell  the  rest." 
He  took  the  sign  fromSeyd's  assenting  eye, 
And  led  the  holy  man  in  silence  nigh. 
His  arms  were  lolded  on  his  dark-green  vest. 
His  step  was  feeble,  and  his  look  deprest ; 
Yet  worn  he  seeni'd  of  hardship  more  than  years, 
And  pale  his  cheek  with  penance,  not  from  fears. 
Vow'd  to  his  God— his  sable  locks  he  wore, 
And  these  his  lofty  cap  rose  proudly  o'er  : 
Around  his  form  his  loose  long  robe  was  thrown, 
And  wrapt  a  breast  liestow'don  heaven  alone  ; 
Submissive,  3-et  with  self-possession  maini'd. 
He  calmly  met  the  curious  eyes  that  scann'd  ; 
And  question  of  his  coming  lain  would  seek, 
Before  the  Pacha's  will  allow'd  to  speak. 

IV. 

"  Whence  com'st  thou,  Dervise  ?" 

"  From  the  outlaw's  den, 
"  A  fugitive—" 

"  Thy  capture  where  and  when  ?" 
"  From  Scalanovo's  port  to  Scio's  isle, 
"  The  Saick  was  i)ound  ;  but  Alia  did  not  smile 


348  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  Upon  our  course — the  Moslem  merchant's  gains 

"  The  Rovers  won :  our  limbs  have  worn  their  chains. 

"  I  had  no  death  to  fear,  nor  wealth  to  boast, 

"  Beyond  the  wandering  freedom  which  I  lost; 

"  At  length  a  fisher's  humble  boat  by  night 

"Afforded  hope,  and  offer'd  chance  of  flight: 

"  I  seized  the  hour,  and  find  my  safety  here — 

'<  With  thee — most  mighty  Pacha  !  who  can  fear?" 

"  How  speed  the  outlaws?  stand  they  well  prepared, 
«' Their  plunder'd  wealth,  and  robber's  rock,  to  guard? 
<' Dream  Ihey  of  this  ourpreparalion,  doom'd 
'<  To  view  with  fire  their  scorpion  nest  consumed  ?" 

"  Pacha !  the  fetter'd  captive's  mourning  eye, 
"  That  weeps  for  flight,  but  ill  can  play  the  spy  ; 
"  I  only  heard  the  recliless  waters  roar, 
"  Those  waves  that  would  not  bear  me  from  the  shore  ; 
"  I  only  mark'd  the  glorious  sun  and  sky. 
"  Too  bright — too  blue — for  my  captivity  ; 
"  And  felt— that  all  which  Freedom's  bosom  cheers, 
"  Must  break  my  chain  before  it  dried  my  tears. 
■ "  This  may'st  thou  judge,  at  least,  from  my  escape, 
"  They  little  deem  of  anght  in  peril's  shape  ; 
"  Else  vainly  had  I  pray'd  or  sought  the  chance 
"  That  leads  me  here — if  eyed  with  vigilance  : 
"  The  careless  guard  that  did  not  see  me  fly, 
"  May  watch  as  idly  when  thy  power  is  nigh  : 
"  Pacha  !— my  limbs  are  faint — and  nature  craves 
"  Food  for  my  hunger,  rest  from  tossing  waves : 
"  Permit  my  absence — peace  be  with  thee  !    Peace 
"  With  all  around  '—now  grant  repose— release." 

"  Stay,  Dervise  !    I  liave  more  to  question — stay, 

"  I  do  conmiand  thee — sit — dost  hear — obey  ! 

"  More  I  must  ask,  and  food  the  slaves  shall  bring ; 

"  Thou  shall  not  pine  where  all  are  banqueting  : 

"  The  supper  done— prepare  thee  to  reply, 

"  Clearly  and  full— I  love  not  mystery." 

'Tweie  vain  to  guess  what  shook  the  pious  man, 
Who  Idok'd  not  lovingly  on  that  Divan  ; 
Nor  show'd  liigh  rclisli  for  the  baiuiuet  prest. 
And  less  respect  for  every  fellow  guest. 
'Twas  but  a  moment's  peevish  hectic  past. 
Along  liis  clieek,  and  tranii\iillized  as  last : 
He  sate  him  down  in  silence,  and  his  look 
Resumed  liie  calnniess  which  before  forsook  : 
The  feast  was  usher'd  in — but  sumptuous  fare 
He  shunn'd  as  if  some  poison  mingled  there. 


THE  CORSAIR.  349 

For  one  so  long  condemnM  to  toil  and  fast, 
Methinks  he  strangely  spares  the  rich  repast. 
"  What  ails  thee,  Dervise  ?  eat— dost  thou  suppose 
"  This  feast  a  Christian's  ?    or  my  friends  thy  foes  ? 
"  Why  dost  thou  shun  the  salt  ?   that  sacred  pledge, 
"  Which,  once  partaken,  blunts  the  sabre's  edge, 
"  Makes  even  contending  tribes  in  peace  unite, 
"  And  hated  hosts  seem  brethren  to  the  sight !" 

"  Salt  seasons  dainties — and  my  food  is  still 

"  The  humblest  root,  my  drink  the  simplest  rill ; 

"  And  my  stern  vow  and  order's  (6)  laws  oppose 

"  To  break  or  mingle  bread  with  I'riends  or  foes  ; 

"  It  may  seem  strange— if  there  be  aught  to  dread, 

"  That  peril  rests  upon  my  single  head  ; 

"  But  for  thy  sway— nay  more— thy  Sultan's  throne, 

''  I  taste  not  bread  nor  banquet— save  alone  ; 

"  Infringed  our  order's  rule,  the  Prophet's  rage 

"  To  Mecca's  dome  might  bar  my  pilgrimage." 

"  Well^as  thou  wilt— ^ascetic  as  thou  art — 

"  One  question  answer  ;  then  in  peace  depart. 

"  How  many  ?— Ha  !  it  cannot  sure  be  day? 

"  What  star— what  sun  is  bursting  on  the  bay? 

"  It  shines  a  lake  of  fire  ! — away — away  ! 

"  Ho  !  treachery  !  my  guards  !  my  scimitar  ! 

"  The  galleys  feed  the  Hames— and  I  afar ! 

"  Accursed  Dervise!— these  thy  tidings — thou 

"  Some  villain  spy — seize— cleave  him — slay  him  now  !" 

Up  rose  the  Dervise  with  that  burst  of  light, 
Nor  less  his  change  of  form  appall'd  the  sight : 
Up  rose  that  Dervise— not  in  saintly  garb. 
But  like  a  warrior  bounding  on  his  barb, 
Dash'd  his  high  cap,  and  tore  his  robe  away — 
Shone  his  mail'd  breast,  and  flash'd  his  sabre's  ray  ! 
His  close  but  glittering  casque,  and  sable  plume, 
More  glittering  eye,  and  black  brow's  sabler  gloom. 
Glared  on  the  Moslems'  eyes  some  Al'rit  sprite  ! 
Whose  demon  death-blow  left  no  hope  for  fight. 
The  wild  confusion,  and  the  swarthy  glow 
Of  flames  on  high,  and  torches  from  below ; 
The  shriek  of  terror,  and  the  mingling  yell — 
For  swords  began  to  clash,  and  shouts  to  swell. 
Flung  o'er  that  spot  of  earth  the  air  of  hell ! 
Distracted,  to  and  fro,  the  flying  slaves 
Behold  but  bloody  shore  and  fiery  waves  ; 
Nought  heeded  they  the  Pacha's  angry  cry. 
They  seize  that  Derviie  !— seize  on  Zatanai !  (T) 

2  G 


350  THE  CORSAIR. 

He  saw  their  terror — clieck'd  the  first  despair 

That  urged  him  but  to  stand  and  perish  there, 

Since  far  too  early  and  too  well  obe}  'd, 

The  flame  was  kindled  e'er  the  signal  made  ; 

He  saw  tlieir  terror — from  his  baldric  drew 

His  bugle — brief  the  blast— but  shrilly  blew  ; 

'Tis  answer'd — "  Well  ye  !«peed,  my  gallant  crew  ! 

"  Why  did  I  doubt  their  quickness  of  career  ? 

"  And  deem  design  had  left  nie  single  here :" 

Sweeps  his  long  arm — that  sabre's  whirling  sway 

Sheds  fast  atonement  IVjr  its  first  delay  ; 

Completes  his  fury,  what  their  fear  begun, 

And  makes  the  many  basely  quail  to  one. 

The  cloven  turbans  o'er  the  chamber  spread, 

And  scarce  an  arm  dare  rise  to  guard  his  head  : 

liven  Seyd,  convulsed,  o'erwhelm'd,  with  rage,  surprise, 

Retreats  before  him,   though  he  still  defies. 

No  craven  he^and  jet  be  dreads  the  blow. 

So  much  Confusion  magnifies  his  foe! 

His  blazing  gallies  still  distract  his  sight. 

He  tore  his  beard,  and  foaming  fled  the  fight ;  (S) 

For  now  the  pirates  pass'd  the  Haram  gate. 

And  hurst  within — and  it  were  death  to  wait ; 

^V'here  wild  Amazement  shrieking — kneeling — throws 

The  sword  aside  —in  vain^the  blood  o'erflows  ! 

The  Corsairs  pouring,  haste  to  where  within. 

Invited  Conrad's  bugle,  and  the  din 

Of  groaning  victims,  and  wild  cries  for  life, 

Proclaim'd  how  well  he  did  the  work  of  strife: 

They  shout  to  find  him  grim  and  lonely  there, 

A  glutted  tiger  mangling  in  his  lair  ! 

But  short  their  greeting- — shorter  his  reply— 

"  'Tis  well — but  Seyd  escapes — and  he  must  die — 

"  Much  hath  been  done — but  more    remains  to  do — 

"  Their  galleys  blaze — why  not  their  city  too ':" 


Quick  at  the  word— they  seized  him  each  a  torch, 

And  fire  the  dome  from  minaret  to  porch. 

A  stern  delight  was  fix'd  in  Conrad's  eje, 

But  sudden  sunk — for  on  his  ear  the  cry 

Of  women  struck,  and  like  a  deadly  knell 

Knock'd  at  that  heart  unmoved  by  battle's  yell. 

"  Oh  !  burst  the  Haram — wrong  not  on  your  lives 

"  One  lemale  form — remember — 7ve  have  wives. 

"  On  them  such  outrage  Vengeance  will  repay ; 

"  Man  is  our^foe,  and  such  'tis  ours  to  slay  : 

"  But  still  we  spared— must  spare  the  weaker  prey. 


'  THE  CORSAIR.  351 

"  Oh  I   I  for:?ot — but  Heaven  will  not  forgive 
"  If  at  my  word  the  helpless  cease  to  live : 
"  Follow  who  will — I  go — we  yet  have  time 
"  Our  souls  to  lighten  of  at  least  a  crime." 
He  climbs  the  crackling  stair — he  bursts  the  door, 
Nor  feels  his  feet  glow  scorching  with  the  floor  ; 
.His  breath  choked  gasping  with  the  volumed  smoke, 
But  still  from  room  to  room  his  way  he  broke. 
They  search — they  find — they  save  :  with  lusty  arms 
Eacli  hears  a  prize  of  unregarded  charms  ; 
Calm  their  loud  fears  ;  sustain  their  sinking  frames 
With  all  the  care  defenceless  beauty  claims  : 
So  well  could  Conrad  tame  iheir  fiercest  mood, 
And  check  the  very  hands  with  gore  imbrued. 
J5ut  who  is  she  ?  whom  Conrad's  arms  convey 
From  reeking  l)ile  and  combat's  wreck  — away — 
Who  but  tlie  love  of  him  he  dooms  to  bleed  ? 
The  Haram  tjueen — but  still  the  slave  of  Seyd  ! 

VI. 

Brief  time  had  Conrad  now  to  greet  Gulnare,  (9) 

Few  words  to  reassure  the  trembling  fair ; 

For  in  that  pause  compassion  snatch'd  from  war, 

The  foe  before  retiring,  fast  and  far. 

With  wonder  saw  their  footsteps  unpursued. 

First  slowlier  fled— then  rallied— then  withstood. 

This  Seyd  perceives,  then  first  perceives  how  few, 

Compared  with  his,  the  Corsair's  roving  crew, 

And  blushes  o'er  his  error,  as  he  eyes 

The  ruin  wrought  by  panic  and  surprise. 

Alia  il  Alia  !   Vengeance  swells  the  cry — 

Shame  mounts  to  rage  that  must  atone  or  die ! 

And  flame  for  flame  and  blood  for  blood  must  lell, 

The  tide  of  triumph  ebbs  that  flow'd  too  well^ 

When  wrath  returns  to  renovated  strife. 

And  those  who  fought  for  conquest  strike  for  life. 

Conrad  behehi  the  danger— he  beheld 

His  loUo-.vers  faint  by  freshening  foesrepell'd  : 

"  One  ellbrt— one— to  break  the  circling  host !!' 

They  form— unite— chargi — w.iver— all  is  lost  ! 

Within  a  narrower  ring  compress'd,  beset, 

Hopeless,  not  heartless,  strive  and  struggle  yet — 

Ah  !   now  they  fight  in  firmest  file  no  mure, 

Hemm'd  in — cut  off— cleft  down— and  trampled  o'er', 

But  each  strikes  singly,  silently,  and  home. 

And  sinks  outwearied  rallier  tlian  o'ercome, 

His  last  faint  quittance  rendering  vvith  his  breath, 

Till  the  blade  glimmers  in  the  grasp  of  death! 


352  THE  CORSAIR. 


VII. 


But  first,  ere  came  llie  ralljinp  host  to  blows. 
And  rank  to  rank,  and  hand  to  hand  oppose, 
Gulnare  and  all  her  Ilaram  handmaids  freed, 
Safe  in  the  dome  of  one  who  held  their  creed. 
By  Conrad's  mandate  salel}'  were  bestowed. 
And  dried  those  tears  for  life  and  fame  that  flow'd : 
And  when  that  dark-eyed  lady,  young  Gulnare, 
Recall'd  (hose  thoughts  late  wandering  in  despair, 
Much  did  she  marvel  o'er  the  courtesy 
That  smooth'd  his  accents ;  softened  in  his  eye  : 
'Twas  strange — t/iat  robber  thus  with  gore  bedew'd, 
Seem'd  gentler  then  than  Sejd  in  fondest  mood. 
The  Pacha  woo'd  as  if  he  deem'd  the  sla^■t 
Must  seem  delighted  with  the  heart  he  gave  ; 
The  Corsair  vow'd  protection,  soothed  atiVight, 
As  if  his  homage  were  a  woman's  right. 
"  The  wisli  is  wrong — nay,  worse  for  female— vain  : 
"  Yet  much  I  long  to  view  that  chief  again  ; 
"  If  but  to  thank  lor,  what  my  fear  forgot, 
"  The  life — my  loving  lord  remember'd  not  !" 

VIII. 

And  him  she  saw,  where  thickest  carnage  spread. 

But  gather'd  breathing  from  the  happier  dead  j 

Far  from  his  band,  and  battling  with  a  host 

That  deem  right  dearly  won  the  field  he  lost, 

Fell'd — bleeding — baffled  of  the  death  he  sought, 

And  snatch'd  to  expiate  all  the  ills  he  wrought ; 

Preserved  to  linger  and  to  live  in  vain. 

While  Vengeance  ponder'd  o'er  new  plans  of  pain, 

And  staunrh'd  the  blood  she  saves  to  shed  again — 

But  drop  by  drop,  for  Seyd's  unglutted  eye 

AVould  doom  him  ever  dying — ne'er  to  die  ! 

Can  this  be  he?  triumphant  late  she  saw, 

When  his  red  hand's  wild  gesture  waved,  a  law  ! 

'Tis  he  indeed — disarm'd  but  undeprest. 

His  sole  regret  the  life  he  still  possest ; 

His  wounds  too  slight,  though  taken  with  that  will, 

Which  would  have  kiss'd  the  hand  that  then  could  kill. 

Oh  were  there  none,  of  all  the  many  given. 

To  send  his  soul — he  scarcely  ask'd  to  heaven  ? 

Must  he  alone  of  all  retain  his  breath, 

Who  more  than  all  had  striven  and  struck  for  death  ? 

He  deeply  felt — what  mortal  hearts  must  feel. 

When  thus  reversed  on  faithless  fortune's  wheel, 


/  THE  CORSAIIl.  353 

For  crimes  committed,  and  the  victor's  thre.-it 

Of  lingering  tortures  to  repay  the  debt — 

He  deeply,  darkly  felt;  but  evil  pride 

That  led  to  perpetrate — now  serves  to  hide. 

Still  in  liis  stern  and  self-collected  mien 

A  conqueror's  more  than  captive's  air  is  seen, 

Though  faint  with  Wiisting  toil  and  sti'lVnirv.'  wound, 

But  few  that  saw — so  calmly  gazed  around  : 

Thougli  the  far  shouting  of  the  distant  crowd, 

Their  tremors  o'er,  rose  insolently  loud. 

The  better  warriors  who  beli-^ld  him  near 

Insulted  not  the  foe  who  taught  them  fear ; 

Aud  the  grim  guards  that  to  his  durance  led, 

In  silence  eyed  him  with  a  secret  dread. 

IX. 

The  Leech  Avas  sent— but  not  in  mercj-— there. 

To  note  liow  much  the  life  yet  left  could  bear  ; 

He  f.-und  enough  to  load  with  heaviest  chain. 

And  promise  feeling  for  the  wrench  of  pain  : 

To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's  evening  sun 

Will  sinking  see  impalement's  pangs  begun. 

And  rising  with  the  wonted  blush  of  morn 

Behold  how  well  or  ill  those  pangs  are  borne. 

Of  torments  this  the  longest  and  the  worst, 

Which  adds  all  other  agony  to  thirst. 

That  day  by  day  death  still  forbears  to  slake, 

While  i'amish'd  vultures  flit  around  the  stake. 

"  Oh!  water — water!" — smiling  Hate  denies 

The  Tictim's  prayer— for  if  he  drinks— he  dies. 

This  was  his  doom : — the  Leech,  the  guard,  were  gone, 

And  left  proud  Conrad  fetter'd  and  alone- 

X. 

'Twere  vain  to  paint  to  what  his  feelings  grew— 
It  even  were  doubtful  if  their  victim  knew. 
There  is  a  war,  a  chaos  of  the  mind, 
When  all  its  elements  convulsed — combined — 
Lie  dark  and  jarring  with  perturbed  force. 
And  gnashing  with  impenitent  Remorse  ; 
That  juggling  fiend — who  never  spake  before— 
But  cries  "  1  warn'd  thee  !"  when  the  deed  is  o'er. 
Vain  voice  !  the  spirit  burning  but  unbent. 
May  writhe— rebel— the  weak  alone  repent! 
Even  in  that  lonely  hour  when  most  it  feels, 
And,  to  itself,  all— all  that  self  reveals, 
2  G  2 


354  THE  CORSAIR. 

No  single  passion,  and  no  ruling  Ihought 

That  leaves  the  rest  unseen,  unsought; 

But  the  wild  prospect  when  the  soul  reviews — 

All  rushing  through  their  thousand  avenues. 

Ambition's  dreams  expiring,  love's  regret, 

Eudanger'd  glory,  lite  itself  beset ; 

The  joy  untasted,  the  contempt  or  hate 

'(iainst  those  who  lain  would  triumph  in  our  fate; 

The  iiopeless  past,  the  hasting  future  driven 

Too  quickly  on  to  guess  if  hell  or  heaven  ; 

Deeds,  thoughts,  and  words,  perhaps  remembered  not 

So  keenly  till  that  hour,  but  ne'er  forgot ; 

Things  light  or  lovely  in  their  acted  time, 

But  now  to  stern  reflection  each  a  crime  ; 

The  withering  sense  of  evil  unreveal'd, 

Not  cankering  less  because  the  more  conctp.l'd — 

All,  in  a  word,  Ironi  which  all  eyes  must  start, 

That  opening  sepulchre — the  naked  heart 

Bares  with  its  buried  woes,  till  Pride  awake, 

To  snatch  the  mirror  from  the  soul — and  break. 

Ay — Pride  can  veil,  and  courage  brave  it  all. 

All— all — before — beyond — the  deadliest  fall. 

Each  hath  some  fear,  and  he  who  least  betrays, 

The  only  hypocrite  deserving  praise  : 

Kot  the  loud  recreant  wretch  who  boasts  and  flies  ; 

But  he  who  looks  on  death — and  silent  dies. 

So  steel'd  by  pondering  o'er  his  far  career. 

He  half-way  meets  him  should  he  menace  near  ! 

XL 

In  the  high  chamber  of  his  highest  tower 
Sate  Conrad,  fetter'd  in  the  Pacha's  power. 
His  palace  perish'd  in  the  flame — this  I'ort 
Contain'd  at  once  his  captive  and  his  court. 
Not  much  could  Conrad  of  his  sentence  blame, 
His  foe,  if  vanquish'd,  had  but  shared  the  same  : 
Alone  he  sate — in  solitude  had  scann'd 
His  guilty  bosom,  but  that  breiist  he  mann'd  : 
One  thought  alone  he  could  not — dared  not  meet — 
"  Oh,  how  these  tidings  will  Medora  greet  ? 
Then — only  then — his  clanking  hands  he  raised. 
And  strain'd  with  rage  the  chain  on  which  he  gazed  ; 
But  soon  he  found — or  feign'd — or  dream'd  relief. 
And  smiled  in  self-derision  of  his  grief, 
"  And  now  come  torture  when  it  will — or  may, 
"  More  neex)  of  rest  to  nerve  me  for  the  day  !" 
Tills  said,  with  languor  to  his  mat  he  crept, 
And,  whatsoe'er  his  visions,  quickly  slept. 


'  THE  CORSAIR.  355 

'Twas  hardly  mklnighl  when  that  fray  hegiin, 
For  Conrad's  plans  matured,  at  once  were  done  ; 
And  Havoc  loathes  so  much  the  waste  of  time. 
She  scarce  had  left  an  uncommitted  crime. 
One  hour  beheld  him  since  the  tide  he  stemm'd — 
Disguised — discover 'd — conquerring — ta'en— condemn 'd — 
A  chief  on  land — an  outlaw  on  the  deep- 
Destroying— saving — prison'd— and  asleep  ! 

XH. 

He  slept  in  calmest  seeming — for  his  breath 

Was  hush'd  so  deep — Ah  !   happy  if  in  death  ! 

He  slept — Who  o'er  his  placid  slumber  bends  ? 

His  foes  are  gone — and  here  he  hath  no  friends  ; 

Is  it  some  seraph  sent  to  grant  him  grace  ? 

No,  'tis  an  earthly  form  with  heavenly  face ! 

Its  white  arm  raised  a  lamp — yet  gently  hid, 

Lest  the  ray  flash  abruptly  on  the  lid 

Of  that  closed  eye,  which  opens  but  to  pain, 

And  once  unclosed — but  once  may  close  again. 

That  form,  with  eye  so  dark,  and  cheek  so  fair, 

And  auburn  waves  of  gemm'd  and  braided  hair  ; 

With  shape  of  fairy  lightness — naked  loot. 

That  shines  like  snow,  and  falls  on  earth  as  mute — 

Through  guards  and  dunnest  night  how  came  it  there  ? 

Ah  !  rather  ask  what  will  not  woman  dare  ? 

Whom  youth  and  pity  lead  like  thee,  Guluare  ! 

She  could  not  sleep—  and  while  the  Pacha's  rest 

In  muttering  dreams  yet  saw  his  pirate-guest, 

She  left  his  side — his  signet-riug  she  bore, 

Vr'hich   oft  in  sport  adorn'd  her  hand  before — 

And  with   it,  scarcely  question'd  won  her  way 

Ulirough  drowsy  guards  that  must  that  sign  obey. 

"Worn  out  with  toil,   and  tired  with  changing  blows, 

Their  eyes  had  envied  Conrad  his  repose  ; 

And  chill  and  notlding  at  the  turret  door, 

I'hey  stretch  their  listless  limbs,  and  watch  no  more : 

Just  raised  their  heads  to  hail  the  signet-ring, 

Nor  ask  or  what  or  who  the  sign  may  bring. 

XIII. 

She  gazed  in  wonder,  "  Can  he  calmly  sleep, 
"  While  other  eyes  his  fall  or  ravage  weep? 
"And  mine  in  restlessness  are  wandering  here — 
"  What  sudden  spell  hath  made  Ihis  man  so  dear  ? 
"  True — 'tis  to  him  my  life,  and  more,   I  owe, 
"  And  me  and  mine  he  spared  from  worse  than  woe  j 


356  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  'Tis  late  to  think — but  soft— his  slumber  breaks — 
"  How  heavily  he  sighs! — he  starts — awakes  !" 

He  raised  his  head—  and  dazzled  with  the  light, 

His  eye  seem'd  dubious  if  it  saw  aright: 

He  moved  his  hand — the  grating  of  his  chain 

Too  harshly  told  him  that  he  lived  again. 

"  What  is  that  form?  if  not  a  shape  of  air, 

"  Methinks  my  jailor's  face  shows  wond'rous  fair  ! 

"  Pirate  I  thou  knovv'st  me  not— but  I  am  one 

"  Grateful  for  deeds  thou  hast  too  rarely  done  ; 

♦'  Look  on  me — ^and  remember  her,  thy  hand 

"  Snatch  d  from  the  flames,  and  thy  more  fearful  band 

"  I  come  througli  darkness — and  I  scarce  know  why — 

"  Yet  not  to  hurt — I  would  not  see  thee  die." 

"  If  so,  kind  latly  !  thine  the  only  eye 

"  That  would  not  here  in  that  gay  hope  delight : 

"  Theirs  is  the  chance — and  let  them  use  their  right. 

"  But  still  I  thank  their  courtesy  or  thine, 

"  That  would  confess  me  at  so  lair  a  shrine !" 

Strange  though  it  seem— yet  with  extremest  grief 

Is  link'd  a  mirth — it  doth  not  bring  relief — 

That  playfulness  of  Sorrow  ne'er  be^'uiles, 

And  smiles  in  bitterness —but  still  it  smiles  ; 

And  sometimes  with  the  wisest  and  the  best, 

Till  even  the  sculluld  (10)  echoes  with  their  jest ! 

Yet  not  the  joy  to  which  it  seems  akin  — 

It  may  deceive  all  hearts,  save  that  within. 

Whate'er  it  was  that  flash 'd  on  Conrad  now, 

A  laughing  wildness  half  unbent  his  brow  : 

And  these  his  accents  had  a  sound  of  mirth,  ' 

As  if  the  last  he  could  enjoy  on  earth  ; 

Yet  'gainst  his  nature — for  through  that  short  life, 

Few  thoughts  had  he  to  spare  from  gloom  and  strife. 

XIV^ 

"  Corsair !  thy  doom  is  named — but  I  have  power 

"  To  soothe  the  Pacha  in  his  weaker  hour. 

"  Thee  would  I  spare — nay  more — would  save  thee  now, 

"  But  this — lime — hope — nor  even  thy  strength  allow; 

"  But  all  I  can,   f  will :  at  least  delay 

"  The  sentence  that  remits  thee  scarce  a  day. 

"  More  now  were  ruin — even  thyself  were  loth 

"  The  vain  attempt  should  bring  but  doom  to  both." 


'  THE  CORSAIR.  357 

<i  Ves  !_loth  inileed  :— my  soul  is  nerved  to  all, 

"  Or  I'cill'i)  too  low  to  fear  a  I'urtlier  fall  : 

"  Tempt  not  tbyself  with  peril  ;  me  with  hope 

"  Of  flight  from  foes  with  whom  I  could  not  cope : 

"  I'lifit  to  vanquish— shall  I  meanly  fly, 

"  The  one  of  all  my  band  ihat  would  not  die? 

"  Yet  there  is  one — to  whom  my  memory  clings, 

"  Till  to  these  eyes  her  own  wild  softness  springs. 

"  My  sole  resources  in  the  path  I  trod 

"  Were  these— my  bark— my  sword— my  love— my  God  ! 

"  The  last  1  left  in  youth— he  leaves  me  now — 

"  And  Man  but  works  his  v  ill  lo  lay  me  low. 

"  I  have  no  thought  to  mock  his  throne  with  prayer 

"  Wrung  from  the  coward  crouching  of  despair  ; 

"  It  is  enough — I  breathe — and  I  can  bear. 

"  My  sword  is  shaken  from  the  worthless  hand 

"  Tiiat  might  have  better  kept  so  true  a  brand  ; 

"  My  bark  is  sunk  or  captive-but  my  love — 

"  For  her  iii  sooth  my  voice  would  mount  above  : 

"  Oh  !   she  is  all  that  still  to  earth  can  bind 

'<  And  this  will  break  a  heart  so  more  than  kind,  ■" 

"  And  blight  a  form— till  thine  appear'd,  Gulnare  ! 

"  Mine  eye  ne'er  ask'd  if  others  were  as  fair." 

"  Thou  lov'st  another  then  ?— but  what  to  me 
"  Is  this— 'tis  nothing— nothing  e'er  can  be  : 
"  But  yet— thou  lov'st— and— Oh  !  1  envy  those 
"  Whose  hearts  on  hearts  as  faithful  can  repose, 
"  Who  never  feel  the  void— the  wandering  thought 
"  That  sighs  o'er  visions  such  as  mine  bath  wrought." 

"  Lady— methought  thy  love  was  his,  for  whom 
"  This  arm  redeem'd  thee  from  a  fiery  tomb." 

"  My  love  stern  Seyd's  !    Oh— No— No— not  my  love— 

"  Yet  much  this  heart,  that  strives  no  more,  once  strove 

"  To  meet  his  passion— but  it  would  not  be. 

"  I  felt— I  feel— love  dwells  with— with  the  free. 

"  I  am  a  slave,  a  favour'd  slave  at  best, 

"  To  share  his  splendour,  and  seem  very  blest ! 

"  Oft  must  my  soul  the  question  undergo, 

u  of_«  Dost  thou  love  ?'  and  burn  to  answer,   '  No  !' 

"  Oh  !  hard  it  is  that  fonchiess  to  sustain, 

"  And  struggle  not  to  feel  averse  in  vain  ; 

"  But  harder  still  the  heart's  recoil  to  bear, 

"  And  hide  from  one— perhaps  another  there. 

"  He  takes  the  hand  I  give  not— nor  withhold— 

"  Its  pulse  nor  check'd— nor  quicken'd— calmly  cold  : 


3.38  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  And  when  resign 'd  it  drops  a  lifeless  weight 

"  From  one  I  never  loved  enough  to  hate. 

"  No  warmth  these  lips  return  by  his  imprest, 

"And  chill'd  remembrance  shudders  o'er  the  rest. 

"Yes — had  I  ever  proved  that  passion's  zeal, 

"  The  change  to  hatred  were  at  least  to  feel  : 

"  But  still — he  goes  unmourn'd — returns  unsought — 

"  And  oft  when  present — absent  from  my  thought. 

"  Or  when  reflection  comes,  and  come  it  must— 

"  I  fear  that  henceforth  'twill  but  bring  disgust ; 

"  I  am  his  slave — but  in  despite  of  pride, 

"  'Twere  worse  than  bondage  to  become  his  bride. 

"  Oh  !  that  this  dotage  of  his  breast  would  cease  ! 

"  Or  seek  another  and  give  mine  release, 

"  But  yesterday —I  could  have  said,  to  peace  ! 

"  Yes— if  unwonted  fondness  now  I  feign, 

"  Remember — captive  I  'tis  to  break  thy  chain ; 

"  Repay  the  life  that  to  thy  hand  I  owe  ; 

"  To  give  thee  back  to  all  endear'd  below. 

"  Who  share  such  love  as  I  can  never  know, 

"  Farewell — mom  breaks — and  1  must  now  away  : 

"  'Twill  cost  me  dear— but  dread  no  death  to  day  !" 

XV. 

She  press'd  his  fetter'd  fingers  to  her  heart, 

And  bow'd  her  head,  and  turn'd  her  to  depart. 

And  noiseless  as  a  lovely  dream  is  gone. 

And  was  she  here  ?  and  is  he  now  alone  ? 

V/hat  gem  hath  dropp'd  and  sparkles  o'er  his  chain  ? 

The  tear  most  sacred,  shed  for  others'  pain. 

That  starts  at  once — bright— pure  — from  Pity's  mine, 

Already  polish'd  by  the  hand  divine  ! 

Oh  !  too  convincing — dangerously  dear — 

In  woman's  eye  the  unanswerable  tear  ! 

That  weapon  of  her  weakness  she  can  wield, 

To  save,  subdue — at  once  her  spear  and  shield  : 

Avoid  it — Virtue  ebbs  and  Wisdom  errs, 

Too  fondly  gazing  on  that  grief  of  hers  ! 

What  lost  a  world,  and  bade  a  hero  fly  ? 

The  timid  tear  in  Cleopatra's  eye. 

Yet  be  the  soft  triumvir's  fault  forgiven, 

By  this — how  many  lose  not  earth-  but  heaven .! 

Consign  their  souls  to  man's  eternal  foe. 

And  seal  their  own  to  spare  some  wanton's  woe  ! 


THE  CORSAIR. 


XVI. 


'Tis  morn — and  o'er  his  altered  features  play 
The  beams — without  the  hope  ol  yesterday. 
AVhat  shall  he  be  ere  night  ?  perchance  a  thing 
O'er  which  Ihe  raven  tlaiis  lier  funeral  wing: 
J3y  his  closed  eye  unheeded  and  unlelt, 
AVhile  sets  that  sun,  and  dews  of  evening  melt, 
Chill — wet — and  misty  round  each  stiflen'd  limb. 
Refreshing  earth— reviving  all  but  him  ! 


Srije  €0V^iv* 


CANTO    III. 


"  Come  vedi — ancor  non  m'abbandona." 

Dante. 


I. 

Slow  sinks,  more  lovely  ere  his  race  be  run, 

Along  Moreu's  hills  the  setting  sun  ; 

Not,  as  in  Northern  climes,  obscurely  bright, 

But  one  unclouded  blaze  of  living  light ! 

O'er  the  hush'd  deep  tlie  yellow  beam  he  throws, 

Gilds  the  green  wave,  that  trembles  as  it  glows. 

On  old  ^gina's  rock,  and  Idra's  isle, 

The  god  of  gladness  sheds  his  parting  smile  ; 

O'er  his  own  regions  lingering,  loves  to  shine, 

Though  there  his  altars  are  no  more  divine. 

Descending  fast  the  mountain  shadows  kiss 

Thy  glorious  gulf,  unconquer'd  Salamis  ! 

Their  azure  arches  through  the  long  expanse 

More  deeply  purpled  meet  his  mellowing  glance. 

And  tenderest  tints,  along  their  summits  driven, 

Mark  his  gay  course,  and  own  the  hues  of  heaven  ; 

Till,  darkly  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep. 

Behind  his  Delphian  clitt"  he  sinks  to  sleep. 

On  such  an  eve,  his  palest  beam  he  cast, 

When— Athens  !  here  thy  Wisest  look'd  his  last. 

How  watch'd  thy  better  sons  his  farewell  ray, 

That  closed  their  murder'd  sage's  (11)  latest  day  ! 

Not  yet— not  yet — Sol  pauses  on  the  hill — 

The  precious  hour  of  parting  lingers  still ; 

But  sad  his  light  to  agonizing  eyes, 

And  dark  the  mountain's  once  delightful  dyes  : 

Gloom  o'er  the  lovely  land  he  seem'd  to  pour. 

The  land,  where  Phoebus  never  frown'd  before. 


The  corsair.  sei 

But  ere  he  sank  below  Cithaeron's  head, 
The  cup  of  woe  was  quart'M — the  sphit  fled  J 
The  soul  of  him  who  scorn 'd  to  fear  or  fly — 
Who  lived  and  died,  as  none  can  live  or  die  ! 

But  lo  !  from  high  Hymettus  to  the  plain. 

The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign.  (12) 

No  murky  vapour,  herald  of  the  storm. 

Hides  her  fair  face,  nor  girds  her  glowing  form ; 

With  cornice  glimmering  as  the  moon-beams  pla3'j 

There  the  white  column  greets  her  grateful  ray. 

And,  bright  around  with  quivering  beams  beset. 

Her  emblem  sparkles  o'er  the  minaret : 

The  groves  of  olive  scatler'd  dark  and  wide 

Where  meek  Cephisus  pours  his  scanty  tide, 

The  cypress  saddening  by  the  sacred  mosque, 

The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  Kiosk,  (13) 

And,  dun  and  sombre  'mid  the  holy  calm, 

Near  Theseus'  fane  yon  solitary  palm. 

All  tinged  with  varied  hues  arrest  the  eye — 

And  dull  were  his  that  pass'd  them  heedless  by. 

Again  the  iEgean,  heard  no  more  afar. 

Lulls  his  chafed  breast  from  elemental  war  ; 

Again  his  waves  in  milder  tints  unfold 

Their  long  array  of  sapphire  and  of  gold, 

Mixt  with  the  shades  of  many  a  distant  isle, 

That  frown — where  gentler  ocean  seems  to  smile.  (14) 

Not  now  my  theme — why  turn  my  thoughts  to  thee  ? 

Oh  !  who  can  look  along  thy  native  sea. 

Nor  dwell  upon  thy  name,  whate'er  the  tale. 

So  much  its  magic  must  o'er  all  prevail  ? 

Who  that  beheld  that  Sun  upon  thee  set. 

Fair  Athens  !  could  thine  evening  face  forget? 

Not  he — whose  heart  nor  time  nor  distance  frees, 

Spell-bound  within  the  clustering  Cyclades  ! 

Nor  seems  this  homage  foreign  to  his  strain. 

His  Corsair's  isle  was  once  thine  own  domain — 

Would  that  with  freedom  it  were  thine  again  ! 

HI. 

The  Sun  hath  sunk— and,  darker  than  the  night. 
Sinks  with  its  beam  upon  the  beacon  height 
Medora's  heart— the  third  day's  come  and  gone— 
With  it  he  comes  not— sends  not— faithless  one! 
The  wind  was  fair  though  light;  and  storms  wera  nona. 
^  2  H 


36-2  THE  CORSAIR. 

Last  eve  Anselmo's  bark  return'd,  and  yet 
His  only  tidings  that  they  had  not  met ! 
Thou2;h  wild,  as  now,  iar  difl'erenl  were  the  tale 
Had  Conrad  waited  for  that  single  sail. 
The  night-breeze  freshens — she  that  day  had  past 
In  watching  all  that  Hope  proclaim'd  a  mast; 
Sadly  she  sate — on  high — Impatience  bore 
At  last  her  footsteps  to  the  midnight  shore, 
And  there  she  wander'd  heedless  of  the  spray 
That  dash'd  her  garments  oft,  and  warn'd  away  : 
She  saw  not — felt  nuttliis — nor  dared  depart, 
Nor  deem'd  it  cold — her  chill  was  at  her  heart ; 
Till  grew  such  certainty  from  that  suspense — 
His  very  Sight  had  shock'd  from  life  or  sense  ! 

It  came  at  last — a  sad  and  shatter'd  boat, 

Whose  inmates  first  beheld  whom  first  they  sought ; 

Some  bleeding — all  most  wretched — these  the  few — 

Scarce  knew  they  how  escaped — this  all  they  knew. 

In  silence,  darkling,  each  appear'd  to  wait 

His  fellow's  mournful  guess  at  Conrad's  fate : 

Something  they  would  have  said;  but  seem'd  to  fear 

To  trust  their  accents  to  Medora's  ear. 

She  saw  at  once,  yet  sunk  not— trembled  not — 

Beneath  that  grief,  that  loneliness  of  lot, 

^\nthin  that  meek  fair  form,  were  feelings  high, 

That  deem'd  not  till  they  found  their  energy. 

While  yet  was  Hope  —they  soften'd — flatter'd — wept  — 

All  lost — that  softness  died  not — but  it  slept ; 

And  o'er  its  slumber  rose  that  Strength  which  said, 

"  With  nothing  left  to  love — there's  nought  to  dread." 

'Tis  more  than  nature's  ;  like  the  burning  might 

Delirium  gathers  from  the  fever's  height. 

"  Silent  you  stand — nor  would  I  hear  you  tell 

"  What^speak  not — breathe  not — for  I  know  it  well — 

"Yet  would  I  ask— almost  my  lips  denies 

"  The— quick  your  answer — tell  me  where  he  lies." 

"  Lady  !  we  know  not — scarce  with  life  we  fled  ; 

"  But  here  is  one  denies  that  he  is  dead  : 

"  He  saw  him  bound  ;  and  bleeding — but  alive."  ' 

She  heard  no  further — 'twas  in  vain  to  strive — 

So  throbb'd  each  vein — each  thought — till  then  withstood ; 

Her  own  dark  soul — these  words  at  once  subdued : 

She  totters— falls — and  senseless  had  the  wave 

Perchance  but  snatch'd  her  from  another  grave  ; 

But  that  with  bands  though  rude,  yet  weeping  eyes. 

They  yield  such  aid  as  Pity's  haste  supplies  : 


THE  CORSAIR.  363 

Dash  o'er  her  deathlike  cheek  the  ocean  dew, 
Raise — fan — sustain — til)  life  returns  anew  ; 
Awake  her  handmaids,  with  the  matrons  leave 
That  fainting  form  o'er  which  they  gaze  and  grieve  ; 
Then  seek  Anselmo's  cavern,  to  report 
The  tale  too  tedious — when  the  triumph  short. 

IV. 

In  that  wild  council  words  wax'd  warm  and  strange. 
With  thoughts  of  ransom,  rescue,  and  revenge  ; 
All,  save  repose  or  flight :  still  lingering  there 
Breathed  Conrad's  spirit,  and  forbade  despair  ; 
Whate'er  liis  fate — the  breasts  lie  form'd  and  led 
Will  save  him  living,  or  appease  him  dead. 
Woe  to  his  foes  !  lliere  yet  survive  a  few. 
Whose  deeds  are  daring,  as  their  hearts  are  true. 

V. 

Within  the  Haram's  secret  chamber  sate 

Stern  Seyd,  still  pondering  o'er  his  Captive's  fate  ; 

His  thoughts  on  love  and  hate  alternate  dwell, 

Now  with  Gulnare,  and  now  in  Conrad's  cell ; 

Here  at  his  feet  the  lovely  slave  reclined 

Surveys  his  brow — would  soothe  his  gloom  of  mind  : 

While  many  an  anxious  glance  her  large  dark  eye 

Sends  in  its  idle  search  for  sympathy, 

///«  only  bends  in  seeming  o'er  his  beads,  (1.5) 

But  inly  views  his  victim  as  he  bleeds. 

"  Pacha !  the  day  is  thine  ;  and  on  thy  crest 

"Sits  Triumph — Conrad  taken — fall'n  the  rest ! 

"  His  doom  is  fix'd — he  dies :  and  well  his  fate 

"  Was  earn'd — yet  much  too  worthless  for  thy  hate  : 

"  Methinks,  a  short  release,  for  ransom  told 

"  With  all  his  treasure,  not  unwisely  sold  ; 

"  Report  speaks  largely  of  his  pirate-hoard — 

"  Would  that  of  this  my  Pacha  were  the  lord  ! 

"  While  baffled,  weaken'd  by  this  latal  fray— 

"  Watch'd — foUow'd — he  were  then  an  easier  prey  ; 

"  But  once  cut  oil" — the  remnant  of  his  band 

"  Embark  their  wealth,  and  seek  a  safer  strand." 

"  Gulnare  !—  if  for  each  drop  of  blood  a  gem 

"  Were  ollVr'd  rich  as  Stamboul's  diadem  ; 

"If  for  eacli  l)air  of  his  a  massy  mine 

"  Of  virgin  ore  should  «u|)pli('ating  shine; 

"  If  all  our  Arab  tales  divulge  or  dream 

"  Of  wealth  were  here — that  gold  should  not  redeem  ! 


364  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  It  had  not  now  redeem'd  a  single  hour  ; 
"  But  that  I  know  Lim  fetter'd,  in  my  power ; 
"  And,  thirsting  lor  revenge,  I  ponder  still 
"On  pangs  that  longest  rack,  and  latest  kill." 

"Nay,  Sejd  ! — I  seek  not  to  restrain  thy  rage, 

"Too  justly  moved  lor  mercy  to  assuage  ; 

"  My  thoughts  were  only  to  secure  for  thee 

"  His  riches — thus  released,  he  were  not  free  : 

"  Disabled,  shorn  of  half  his'might  and  band, 

"  His  capture  could  but  wait  thy  first  command." 

"  His  capture  could ! — and  shall  I  then  resign 

"  One  day  to  him — the  wretch  already  mine  ? 

"  Release  my  foe  ! — at  whose  remonstrance  ? — thine ! 

"  Fair  suitor  ! — to  thy  virtuous  gratitude,  * 

"  That  thus  repays  this  Giaour's  relenting  mood, 

"  Which  thee  and  thine  alone  of  all  could  spare, 

"  No  doubt — regardless  if  the  prize  were  fair, 

"  My  thanks  and  praise  alike  are  due — now  hear  ! 

"  I  have  a  counsel  for  thy  gentler  ear  : 

"  I  do  mistrust  thee,  woman  !  and  each  word 

"Of  thine  stamps  truth  on  all  Suspicion  heard. 

"  Borne  in  his  arms  through  fire  from  yon  Serai — 

"  Say,  wert  thou  lingering  there  with  him  to  fly  ? 

"  Thou  need'st  not  answer — thy  confession  speaks, 

"  Already  reddening  on  thy  guilty  cheeks  ; 

"  Then,  lovely  dame,  bethink  thee  !  and  beware ; 

"  'Tis  not  /lis  life  alone  may  claim  such  care  ! 

"  Another  word  and — nay — I  need  no  more. 

"  Accursed  was  the  moment  when  he  bore 

"  Thee  from  the  flames,  which  better  far— but — no — 

"  I  then  had  mourn'd  thee  with  a  lover's  woe — 

"  Now  'tis  thy  lord  that  warns — deceitful  thing  ? 

"  Know'st  thou  that  I  can  clip  thy  wanton  wing  ? 

"  In  words  alone  I  am  not  wont  to  chafe  : 

"  Look  to  thyself — nor  deem  thy  falsehood  safe  !" 

He  rose — and  slowly,  sternly  thence  withdrew, 
Rage  in  his  eye  and  threats  in  his  adieu : 
Ah  !  little  reck'd  that  chief  of  womanhood — 
Which  frowns  ne'er  quell'd,  nor  menances  subdued  ; 
And  little  deem'd  he  what  thy  heart,  Gulnare! 
When  soft  could  feel,  and  when  incensed  could  dare. 
His  doubts  appear'd  to  wrong— nor  yet  she  knew 
How  deep  the  root  from  whence  compassion  grew — 
She  was  a  slave — from  such  may  captives  claim 
A  fellow-feeling,  dillering  but  in  iiamej 


THE  CORSAIR.  365 

Still  half  unconscious — heedless  of  his  wrath, 
Again  she  ventured  on  the  dangerous  path. 
Again  his  rage  repell'd — until  arose 
That  strife  of  thought,  the  source  of  woman's  woes  ! 

VI. 

Meanwhile — long  anxious — wearj- — still — the  same 

RoU'd  day  and  night— his  soul  could  never  tame — 

This  fearful  interval  of  doubt  and  dread, 

When  every  hour  might  doom  him  worse  than  dead, 

When  every  step  thatecho'd  by  the  gate 

Might  entering  lead  where  axe  and  stalce  await ; 

When  every  voice  that  grated  on  his  ear 

Might  be  the  last  that  he  could  ever  hear  ; 

Could  terror  tame — that  spirit  stern  and  high 

Had  proved  unwilling  as  unfit  to  die  ; 

'Twas  worn — perhaps  decay'd — yet  silent  bore 

That  conflict  deadlier  far  than  all  before  : 

The  heat  of  fight,  the  hurry  of  the  gale, 

Leave  scarce  one  thought  inert  enough  to  quail ; 

But  bound  and  fix'd  in  fetter'd  solitude, 

To  pine,  the  prey  of  every  changing  mood  ; 

To  gaze  on  thine  own  heart ;  and  meditate 

Irrevocable  faults,  and  coming  fate — 

Too  late  the  last  to  shun — the  first  to  mend — 

To  count  the  hours  that  struggle  to  thine  end. 

With  not  a  friend  to  animate,  and  tell 

To  other  ears  that  death  became  thee  well ; 

Around  thee  foes  to  forge  the  ready  lie, 

And  blot  life's  latest  scene  vi-ith  calumny  ; 

Before  thee  tortures,  which  the  soul  can  dare. 
Yet  doubt  how  well  the  shrinking  flesh  may  bear  ; 

But  deeply  feels  a  single  cry  would  shame. 

To  valour's  praise  thy  last  and  dearest  claim'; 

The  life  thou  leav'st  below,  denied  above 

By  kinil  monopolists  of  heavenly  love  ; 

And  more  than  doubtful  paradise — thy  heaven 

Of  earthly  hope — thy  loved  one  from  thee  riven. 

Such  were  the  thoughts  that  outlaw  must  sustain, 

And  goverji  pangs  surpassing  mortal  pain  : 

And  those  sustain'd  he— boots  it  well  or  ill? 

Since  not  to  sink  beneath,  is  something  still ! 

VII. 

The  first  day  pass'd — he  saw  not  her — Gulnare — 
The  second— third — and  still  she  came  not  there  ; 

2  H2 


366  THE  CORSAIR. 

But  what  her  words  avouch'd,  her  charms  had  done, 

Or  else  he  had  not  seen  another  sun. 

The  fourth  day  roll'd  along,  and  with  the  night 

Came  storm  and  darkness  in  their  mingling  might : 

Oh  !  how  he  listen'd  to  the  rushing  deep. 

That  ne'er  till  now  so  broke  upon  his  sleep; 

And  his  wild  spirit  wilder  wishes  sent. 

Roused  bj'  the  roar  of  his  own  element  ! 

Oft  had  he  ridden  on  that  winged  wave. 

And  loved  its  roughness  for  the  speed  it  gave  ; 

And  now  its  dashing  echo'd  on  his  ear, 

A  long  known  voice — alas  I  .too  vainly  near  ! 

Loud  sung  the  wind  above  ;  and  doubly  loud, 

Shook  o'er  his  turret  cell  the  thunder- cloud  ; 

And  flash'd  the  lightning  by  the  latticed  bar, 

To  him  more  genial  than  the  midnight  star  : 

Close  to  the  glimmering  grate  he  dragg'd  his  chain> 

And  hoped  titat  peril  might  not  prove  in  vain. 

He  raised  his  iron  hand  to  Heaven,  and  pray'd 

One  pitying  flash  to  mar  the  form  it  made  : 

His  steel  and  impious  prayer  attract  alike — 

The  storm  roll'd  onward,  and  disdain'd  to  strike  ; 

Its  peal  wax'd  fainter — ceased — he  felt  alone. 

As  if  some  faithless  friend  had  spurn'd  his  groan  ! 

VHI. 

The  midnight  pass'd — and  to  the  massy  door 
A  light  step  came— it  paused — it  moved  once  more  ; 
Slovv  turns  the  grating  bolt  and  sullen  key  : 
'Tis  as  his  heart  forboded — that  fair  she  ! 
AVhate'er  her  sins,  to  him  a  guardian  saint, 
And  beauteous  still  as  hermit's  hope  can  paint ; 
Yet  changed  since  last  within  that  cell  she  came, 
More  pale  her  cheek,  more  tremulous  her  frame  : 
On  him  she  cast  her  dark  and  hurried  eye, 
Which  spoke  before  her  accents — "  thou  must  die  • 
"  Yes,  thou  must  die— there  is  but  one  resource, 
"<  The  last — the  worst — if  torture  were  not  worse." 

"  Lady  !  I  look  to  none — my  lips  proclaim 
"  What  last  proclaim'd  they— Conrad  still  the  same  : 
"  Why  should'st  thou  seek  an  outlaw's  life  to  spare, 
"  And  change  the  sentence  I  deserve  to  bear  ? 
"Well  have  I  earn'd— nor  here  alone — the  meed 
"  Of  Seyd's  revenge,  by  many  a  lawless  deed." 

"  Why  should  I  seek  ?  because— Oh  !  didst  thou  not 
"  Redeem  my  life  from  worse  than  slavery's  lot? 


THE  CORSAIR.  36T 

«  Why  should  I  seek  ?— hath  misery  made  thee  blind 

"  To'the  fond  \vorkinQ;s  of  a  woman's  mind  ! 

"  And  must  I  say?  albeit  my  heart  rebel 

"  With  all  that  woman  feels,  hut  should  not  tell  — 

"  Because— despite  thy  crimes— that  heart  is  moved  : 

"  It  fear'd  thee— thank'd  thee— pitied— madden'd—lov'd. 

"  Reply  not,  tell  not  now  tliy  tale  again, 

"  Thou  lov'st  another — and  I  love  in  vain : 

"  Though  fond  as  mine  her  bosom,  form  more  fair, 

"  I  rush  through  peril  which  she  would  not  dare- 

'<  If  that  thy  heart  to  hers  were  truly  dear, 

"  Were  I  thine  own — thou  wert  not  lonely  here  , 

'•'  An  outlaw's  spouse— arid  leave  her  lord  to  roam  ! 

"  What  hath  such  gentle  dame  to  do  with  home  ? 

"  But  speak  not  now— o'er  thine  and  o'er  my  head 

<'  Hangs  the  keen  sabre  by  a  single  thread  ; 

"  If  thou  hast  courage  still,  and  wouldst  be  free, 

"  Receive  this  poniard— rise— and  follow  me  1" 

"  Ay— in  my  chains  !  my  steps  will  gently  tread, 
"  With  these  adornments,  o'er  each  slumbering  head  ? 
"  Thou  hast  forgot— is  this  a  garb  for  flight  ? 
"  Or  is  that  instrument  more  fit  for  fight ':" 

"  Misdoubting  Corsair  !  I  have  gain'd  the  guard, 

"  Ripe  for  revolt,  and  greedy  for  reward. 

"  A  single  word  of  mine  removes  that  chain  ! 

"  Without  some  aid  how  here  could  I  remain  ? 

'<  Well,  since  we  met,  hath  sped  my  busy  time, 

'<  If  in  a\ight  evil,  for  thy  sake  the  crime  : 

"  The  crime — 'tis  none  to  punish  those  of  Seyd. 

<'  That  hated  tyrant,  Conrad— he  must  bleed  ! 

<'  I  see  thee  shudder — but  my  soul  is  changed— 

"  Wrong'd,  spnrn'd,  reviled— and  it  shall  be  avenged — 

"  Accused  of  what  till  now  my  heart  disdain'd — 

"  Too  faithful,  though  to  bitter  bondage  chain'd — 

"  Ves,  smile  ' — but  he  had  little  cause  to  sneer, 

"  I  was  not  treacherous  then— nor  thou  too  dear; 

<'  But  he  has  said  it — and  the  jealous  well, 

"  Those  tyrants,  teasing,  tempting  to  rebel, 

"  Deserve  the  fate  their  fretting  lips  foretell. 

"  I  never  loved — he  bought  me — somewhat  high — 

"  Since  with  me  came  a  heart  he  could  not  buy. 

«'  1  was  a  slave  unmurnuiring  :  he  hath  said, 

"  But  for  his  rescue  I  with  thee  hath  fled. 

"  'Twas  false  thou  kimw'st— but  let  such  augurs  rue, 

"  Their  words  are  omens  Insult  renders  true.  ' 

"  Nor  was  thy  respite  granted  to  my  prayer  ; 

"  This  fleeting  grace  was  only  to  prepare 


368  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  New  torments  for  thy  life,  and  my  despair. 

"  Mine  too  he  threatens  ;  but  his  dotage  stiU 

"  Would  fain  reserve  me  for  his  lordly  will : 

"  When  wearier  of  these  fleeting  charms  and  me, 

"  There  yawns  the  sack — and  jonder  roll^  the  sea  ! 

"  \Vhat,  am  I  then  a  toy  for  dotard's  play, 

"  To  wear  but  till  the  gilding  frets  away  ? 

"  I  saw  thee — loved  thee — owe  thee  all— would  save, 

"  If  but  to  show  how  grateful  is  a  slave. 

"  But  had  he  not  thus  menaced  fame  and  life, 

"  (And  well  he  lieeps  his  oaths  pronounced  in  strife) 

"  I  still  had  saved  thee — but  the  Pacha  spared. 

"  Now  I  am  all  thine  own — for  all  prepared  : 

"Thou  lov'st  nie  not — nor  know'st — or  but  the  worst. 

"  Alas  !  this  love  that  hatred  are  the  first — ^^ 

"  Oh  !  couldst  thou  prove  my  truth,  thou  would'st  not  start, 

"  Nor  fsar  the  fire  that  lights  an  Eastern  heart, 

"  'Tis  now  the  beacon  of  ihy  safety  — now 

'*  It  points  wilhin  the  port  a  Mainote  prow  : 

"  But  in  one  chamber,  where  our  path  must  lead, 

"  There  sleeps — he  must  not  wake— the  oppressor  Seyd  !" 

"  Gulnare — Gulnare — T  never  felt  till  now 

"  My  aiiject  fortune,  wither'd  fame  so  low  : 

"  Seyd  is  mine  enemy  :  had  swept  my  band 

*'  From  Earth  with  ruthless  but  with  open  hand, 

"  And  therefore  came  I,  in  my  bark  of  war, 

"  To  smite  the  smiter  with  the  scimitar  : 

"  Such  is  my  weapon  —not  the  sceret  knile — 

"  Who  spares  a  woman's  seeks  not  slumber's  life. 

"Thine  saved  I  gladly,  Lady,  not  for  this — 

"  Let  me  not  deem  that  mercy  shown  amiss. 

"  Now  fare  thee  well  —more  peace  be  with  thy  breast ! 

"  Night  wears  apace — my  last  of  earthly  rest !'' 

"  Rest !  Rest !  by  sunrise  must  thy  sinews  shake, 

"  And  thy  limbs  writhe  around  the  ready  stake, 

"  I  heard  the  oider — saw — I  will  not  see — 

"  If  thou  wilt  perish,  I  will  fall  with  thee. 

"  My  life — my  love— my  hatred — all  below 

"  Are  on  this  cast — Corsair  !   'tis  but  a  blow  ! 

"  Without  it  flight  were  idle — how  evade 

"  His  sure  pursuit  ?  my  wrongs  too  unrepaid, 

"  My  youth  disgraced — the  long,  long  wasted  years, 

"  One  blow  shall  cancel  with  our  future  fears, 

"  But  since  the  dagger  suits  thee  less  than  brand, 

"  I'll  try  the  firmness  of  a  female  hand. 

"  Tiie  guards  are  gain'd— one  moment  all  were  o'er — 

"  Corsair  !  we  meet  in  safety  or  no  more  ; 


/  THE  CORSAIR.  369 

"  If  errs  my  feeble  hand,  the  morning  cloud 
"  Will  hover  o'er  thy  scaffold,  and  my  shroud." 

She  turn'd,  and  vanish'd  ere  he  could  reply, 

But  his  glance  foUow'd  far  with  eager  eye  : 

And  gathering,  as  he  could,  the  links  that  bound 

His  form,  to  curl  their  length,  and  curb  their  sound. 

Since  bar  and  bolt  no  more  his  steps  preclude. 

He,  fast  as  fetter'd  limbs  allow,  pursued. 

'Twas  dark  and  winding,  and  he  knew  not  where 

That  passage  led  ;  nor  lamp  nor  guard  were  there : 

He  sees  a  dusky  glimmering — shall  he  seek 

Or  shun  that  ray  so  indistinct  and  weak  ? 

Chance  guides  his  steps — a  freshness  seems  to  bear 

Fnll  on  his  brow,  as  if  from  morning  air — 

He  reach'd  an  open  gallery — on  his  eye 

Gleam'd  the  last  star  of  night,  tlie  clearing  sky  : 

Yet  scarcely  heeded  these — another  light 

From  a  lone  chamber  struck  upon  his  sight. 

Towards  it  he  moved  ;  a  scarcely  closing  door 

Reveal'd  the  ray  within  but  nothing  more. 

With  hasty  step  a  figure  outward  past. 

Then  paused — and  turu'd — and  paused — 'tis  She  at  last ! 

No  poniard  in  that  hand — nor  sign  of  ill — 

"  Thanks  to  that  softening  heart — she  could  not  kill  I" 

Agaui  he  look'd,  the  wildness  of  her  eye, 

Starts  from  the  day  abrupt  aud  fearfully- 

She  stopp'd — threw  back  her  dark  far-floating  hair, 

That  nearly  veil'd  her  face  and  bosom  fair  : 

As  if  she  late  had  bent  her  leaning  head 

Above  some  object  of  her  doubt  or  dread. 

They  meet — upon  her  brow — unknown — forgot — 

Her  hurrying  hand  had  left — 'twas  but  a  spot — 

Its  hue  Wiis  all  he  saw,  aud  scarce  withstood — 

Ob !  slight  but  certain  pledge  of  crime — 'tis  blood  ! 

X. 

He  had  seen  battle— he  had  brooded  lone 

O'er  promised  pangs  to  sentenced  guilt  foreshown  : 

He  had  been  tempted— chaslen'd — and  the  chain 

Yet  on  his  arms  might  ever  there  remain  : 

But  ne'er  from  strife — captivity — remorse — 

From  all  his  feelings  in  their  inmost  force — 

So  thrill'd — so  shudder'd  every  creeping  vein, 

As  now  they  froze  before  that  purple  stain. 

That  spot  of  blood,  that  light  but  guilty  streak, 

Had  banish'd  all  the  beauty  from  her  cheek  ! 

Blood  he  had  view'd — could  view  unmoved — but  then 

Jt  flow'd  in  combat,  or  was  shed  by  men  ! 


3T0  THE  CORSAIR. 


XI. 

"  'Tis  clone— he  nearly  waked— but  it  is  done. 

"  Corsair !    he  perish'd— thou  art  dearly  won. 

"  All  words  would  now  be  vain — away-  away  \ 

"  Our  bark  is  tossing— 'tis  already  day. 

"  The  few  gain'd  over,  now  are  wholly  mine, 

"  And  these  thy  yet  surviving  band  shall  join  : 

"  Anon  my  voice  shall  vindicate  my  hand, 

"  When  once  our  sail  forsakes  this  hated  strand." 

XII. 

She  clapp'd  her  hands— and  through  the  galleiy  pour 
Equipp'd  for  flight,  her  vassals— Greek  and  Moor ; 
Silent  but  quick  they  stoop,  his  chains  unbind  ; 
Once  more  his  limbs  are  free  as  mountain  wind  ! 
But  on  his  heavy  heart  such  sadness  sate. 
As  if  they  there  transferred  that  iron  weight. 
No  words  are  utter'd— at  her  sign,  a  door 
Reveals  the  secret  passage  to  the  shore  ; 
The  city  lies  behind— they  speed,  they  reach 
The  ghul  waves  dancing  on  the  yellow  beach  ; 
And  Conrad  following,  at  her  beck,  obey'd. 
Nor  cared  he  now  if  "rescued  or  betray'd  ; 
Resistance  were  as  useless  as  if  Seyd 
Yet  lived  to  view  the  doom  his  ire  decreed- 

XIII. 

Embark'd,  the  sail  unfurl'd,  the  light  breeze  blew-- 
How  much  had  Conrad's  memory  to  review  ! 
Sunk  he  in  Contemplation,  till  the  cape 
Where  last  he  anchor^l  rear'd  its  giant  shape. 
Ah  !  since  that  fatal  night,  though  brief  the  time, 
Had  svvept  an  age  of  terror,  grief,  and  crime. 
As  its  far  shadow  frown 'd  above  the  mast, 
He  veil'd  his  face,  and  sorrow-'d  as  he  past ; 
•  He  thought  of  all— Gonsalvo  and  his  band. 
His  fleeting  triumph  and  his  failing  hand  ; 
He  thought  on  her  afar,  his  lonely  bride  : 
He  turned  and  saw — Guluare,  the  homicide  ! 

XIV. 

She  watch 'd  his  features  till  she  could  not  bear 
Their  freezing  aspect  and  averted  air. 
And  that  strange  fierceness  foreign  to  her  eye. 
Fell  quench 'd  in  tears,  too  late  to  shed  or  dry. 


THE  CORSAIR.  371 

She  knelt  beside  bitn  and  his  hand  she  prest, 
"  Thou  may'st  forgive  though  AUa's  self  detest; 
"  But  for  that  deed  of  darkness  what  wert  thou  ? 
"  Reproach  me — but  not  yet — Oh  !  spare  me  now  ! 
"  I  am  not  what  I  seem  — this  fearful  night 
"  My  brain  bewilder'd — do  not  madden  quite  ! 
"  If  I  had  never  loved — though  less  my  guilt, 
"  Thou  hadst  not  lived  to — hate  me — if  thou  wilt." 

XV. 

She  wrongs'his  thoughts,  they  more  himself  upbraid 

Than  her,  though  undesigned,  the  wretch  he  made  ; 

But  speechless  all,  deep,  dark,  and  unexprest, 

They  bleed  within  that  silent  cell— his  breast. 

Still  onv/ard,  fair  the  breeze,  nor  rough  the  surge, 

The  blue  waves  sport  around  the  stern  they  urge  ; 

Far  on  the  horizon's  verge  appears  a  speck, 

A  spot — a  mast — a  sail — an  armed  deck  ! 

Their  little  bark  her  men  of  watch  descr}', 

And  ampler  canvass  woos  the  wind  from  high  ; 

She  bears  her  down  majestically  near. 

Speed  on  her  prow,  and  terror  in  her  tier ; 

A  flash  is  seen,  the  ball  beyond  their  bow 

Booms  harmless,  hissing  to  the  deep  belovi*. 

Up  rose  keen  Conrad  from  his  silent  trance, 

A  long,  long  absent  gladness  in  his  glance  ? 

"  'Tis  mine  —my  blood-red  flag  I    again — again — 

"  I  um  not  all  deserted  on  the  main  !" 

They  own  the  signal,  answer  to  the  hail, 

Hoist  out  the  boat  at  once,  and  slacken  sail. 

" 'Tis  Conrad  !  Conrad!"    shouting  from  the  deck, 

Command  nor  duty  could  their  transport  check  ! 

With  light  alacrity  and  gaze  of  pride, 

They  view  him  mount  once  more  his  vessel's  side ; 

A  smile  relaxing  in  each  rugged  face. 

Their  arms  can  scarce  forbear  a  rough  embrace. 

He,  half  forgetting  danger  and  defeat, 

Returns  their  greeting  as  a  chief  may  greet, 

Wrings  with  a  cordial  grasp  Anselmo's  hand, 

And  feels  he  yet  can  conquer  and  command  ! 

XVI. 

These  greetings  o'er,  the  feelings  that  o'erflow. 
Yet  grieve  to  win  him  back  without  a  blow  ; 
They  sail'd  prepar'd  for  vengeance— had  they  known 
A  woman's  hand  seeur'd  that  deed  her  own, 


3t2  THE  CORSAIR. 

She  were  tlieir  queen— less  scrupulous  are  they 
Than  haugbly  Conrad  how  they  win  their  way. 
With  many  an  asking  smile,  and  wondering  stare, 
They  whisper  round,  and  gaze  upon  Giilnare; 
Aud  her,  at  once  above — beneath  her  sex. 
Whom  blood  appall 'd  not,  their  regards  [lerplex. 
To  Conrad  turns  her  laint  imploring  eye, 
She  drops  her  veil,  and  stands  in  silence  by  ; 
Her  arms  are  meekly  folded  on  that  breast, 
Which — Conrad  sale — to  fate  resign'd  the  rest. 
Though  worse  than  frenzy  could  that  bosom  fill. 
Extreme  in  love  or  hate,  in  good  or  ill. 
The  worst  of  crimes  hath  left  her  woman  still ! 


xvn. 

This  Conrad  mark'd  and  felt — ah  !  could  he  less? — 

Hate  of  that  deed — but  grief  for  her  distress; 

M^hat  she  has  done  no  tears  can  wash  away, 

And  Heaven  must  punish  on  its  angry  day  ! 

But — it  was  done :  he  knew,  whate'er  her  guilt, 

For  him  that  poinard  smote,  that  blood  was  spilt ; 

And  he  was  free  ! — and  she  ibr  him  had  given 

Her  all  on  earth,  and  more  than  all  in  heaven  ! 

And  now  he  turned  him  to  that  dark- eyed  slave 

Whose  brow  was  bowed  beneath  the  glance  he  gave, 

Who  now  seeniM  changed  and  humbled  : — faint  and  meek, 

But  varying  oft  the  colour  of  her  cheek 

To  deeper  shades  of  paleness — all  its  red 

That  fearful  spot  which  stain'd  it  from  the  dead  ! 

Me  took  that  hand— it  trembled — now  too  late — 

So  soft  in  love— so  wildly  nerved  in  hate ; 

He  clasp'd  that  hand— it  trembled — and  his  own 

Had  lost  its  firmness,  and  his  voice  its  tone. 

"  Gulnare  I" — but  she  replied  not — "  dear  Gulnare  '." 

She  raised  her  eye — her  only  answer  there — 

At  once  she  sought  and  sunk  in  his  embrace  : 

If  he  had  driven  her  from  that  resting-place. 

His  had  been  more  or  less  than  mortal  heart, 

But — good  or  ill — it  bade  her  not  depart. 

Perchance,  but  for  the  bodings  of  his  breast. 

His  latest  virtue  then  had  joined  the  rest. 

Yet  even  Medora  might  forgive  the  kiss 

That  ask'd  Irom  ibrni  so  fair  no  more  than  this. 

The  first,  the  last  that  Frailty  stole  from  Faith— 

To  lips  where  Love  hath  lavish'd  all  his  breath. 

To  lips — whose  broken  sighs  such  fragrance  fling, 

As  he  had  fann'd  them  freshly  with  his  wing  ! 


THE  CORSAIR.  373 


XVTIT. 


They  gain  by  twilight's  hour  their  lonely  isle. 

To  them  the  very  rocics  appear  to  smile  ; 

The  haven  hums  with  many  a  cheering  sound, 

The  beacons  blaze  their  wonted  stations  round, 

The  boats  are  darling  o'er  the  curly  bay, 

And  sportive  dolphins  bend  them  through  the  spray  : 

Even  the  hoarse  sea-bird's  shrill  discordant  shriek. 

Greets  like  the  welcome  of  his  tuneless  beak  ! 

Beneath  each  lamp  that  through  its  lattice  gleams, 

Their  fancy  paints  the  friends  that  trim  the  beams. 

Oh  !  what  can  sanctify  the  joys  of  home. 

Like  Hope's  gay  glance  from  Ocean's  troubled  foam  ? 

XIX. 

The  lights  are  high  on  beacon  and  from  bower, 

And  midst  them  Conrad  seeks  Medora's  tower  : 

He  looks  in  vain — 'tis  strange — and  all  remark. 

Amid  so  many,  her's  alone  is  dark. 

'l"is  strange — of  yore  its  welcome  never  fail'd. 

Nor  now,  perchance,  extinguish'd,  only  veil'd. 

With  the  first  boat  descends  he  for  the  shore. 

And  looks  impatient  on  the  lingering  oar. 

Oh  !  for  a  wing  beyond  the  falcon's  flight,  , 

To  bear  him  like  an  arrow  to  that  heiglit  ! 

With  the  first  pause  the  resting  rowers  gave, 

He  waits  not — looks  not — leaps  into  the  wave, 

Strives  through  the  surge,  bestrides  the  beach,  and  high 

Ascends  the  path  familiar  to  his  eye. 

He  reached  his  turret  door — he  paused — no  sound 
Broke  from  within  ;  and  all  was  night  around. 
He  knock'd,  and  loudly  -  footstep  nor  reply 
Announced  that  any  heard  or  deem'd  him  nigh  ; 
He  knock'd — hut  faintly — for  his  Irenibling  hand 
Refused  to  aid  his  heavy  heart's  demand. 
The  portal  opens — 'tis  a  well  known  face — 
But  not  the  form  he  pante<.l  to  embrace. 
Its  lips  are  silent — twice  his  own  essay'd. 
And  lail'd  to  IVame  the  question  they  dehiy'd  ; 
He  snatch'il  the  lamp— its  ligiit  will  answer  all — 
It  quits  his  grasp,  (  xpiring  in  llie  fall. 
He  would  not  wait  for  that  reviving  ray — 
As  soon  could  he  have  linger'd  there  for  day  ; 
But,  glimmering  tlirough  the  dusky  corridore, 
Another  chequers  o'er  the  shadow'd  floor ; 

2  I 


374    <    '  THE  CORSAIR. 

His  steps  the  chamber  gain — his  e)'es  behold 
All  that  his  heart  believ'd  not — yet  foretold  ! 

XX. 

He  turn'd  not — spoke  not — sunk  not — fix'd  his  look, 

And  set  tlie  .-mxious  frame  that  lately  shook  : 

He  gazed — how  long  we  gaze  despite  of  pain, 

And  know,  but  dare  not  own,  we  gaze  in  vain  ! 

In  life  itself  she  was  so  still  and  fair. 

That  death  with  gentler  aspect  wither'd  there  ; 

And  the  cold  flowers  (16)  her  colder  hand  contain'd, 

In  that  last  grasp  as  tenderly  were  strain 'd 

As  if  she  scarcely  felt,  but  feign'd  a  sleep, 

And  made  it  almost  mockery  yet  to  weep  : 

The  long  dark  lashes  fringed  her  lids  of  snow* 

And  veii'd — thought  shrinks  from  all  that  lurk'd  below- 

Oh  !  o'er  the  eye  Death  most  exerts  his  might. 

And  hurls  the  spirit  from  her  throne  of  light ! 

Sinks  those  blue  orbs  in  that  long  last  eclipse. 

But  spares,  as  yet,  the  charm  around  her  lips — 

Yet,  yet  they  seem  as  they  forebore  to  smile. 

And  wish'd  repose— but  only  for  a  while  ; 

But  the  white  shroud,  and  each  extended  tress. 

Long—  fair — but  spread  in  utter  lifelessnesss. 

Which,  late  the  sport  of  every  summer  wind, 

Escaped  tlie  baflled  wreath  that  strove  to  bind  : 

These — and  the  pale  pure  cheek,  became  the  bier — 

But  she  is  nothing — wherefore  is  he  here  ? 

XXI. 

He  ask'd  no  question — all  were  answer'd  now 
By  the  first  glance  on  that  still — marble  brow. 
It  was  enough— she  died— wliat  reck'd  it  how  ? 
The  love  of  youth,  the  hope  of  better  years, 
The  source  of  soltest  wishes,  tenderest  fears, 
The  only  living  thing  he  could  not  hate, 
Was  relt  at  once— and  he  deserved  his  fate, 
But  did  not  feel  it  less  ; — the  good  explore, 
For  peace,  those  realms  where  guilt  can  never  soar: 
The  proud — flie  wayward — who  have  fix'd  below 
Their  joy,  and  find  this  earth  enough  for  woe. 
Lose  in  that  one  their  all— perchance  a  mite — 
But  who  in  patience  parts  with  all  delight  ? 
Full  many  a  stoic  eye  and  aspect  stern 
Mask  hearts  where  grief  hath  little  left  to  learn  ; 
And  many  a  withering  thought  lies  hid,  not  lost. 
In  smile*  that  least  belit  who  wear  tiiem  most. 


THE  CORSAIR.  375 


XXII. 


By  those  (hat  deepest  feel  is  ill  exprest 
The  indistinctness  of  the  suftering  breast ; 
Where  thousand  thoughts  begin  to  end  in  one, 
Which  seeks  from  all  the  rei'uge  found  in  none  ; 
No  words  suffice  the  secret  soul  to  show  ; 
For  Truth  denies  all  eloquence  to  Woe. 
Oil  Conrad's  stricken  soul  exhaustion  prest, 
And  stupor  almost  luU'd  it  into  rest ; 
So  feeble  now — his  mother's  softness  crept 
To  those  wild  eyes,  which  like  an  infant's  wept : 
It  was  the  very  weakness  of  his  brain, 
Which  thus  confess'd  without  relieving  pain. 
None  saw  his  trickling  tears — perchance,  if  seen. 
That  useless  flood  of  grief  had  never  been. 
Nor  long  they  flow'd — he  dried  them  to  depart, 
In  helpless — hopeless — brokenness  of  heart: 
The  sun  goes  forth — but  Conrad's  day  is  dim  ; 
And  the  night  cometh — ne'er  to  pass  from  him. 
There  is  no  darkness  like  the  cloud  of  mind, 
On  Grief's  vain  eye — the  blindest  of  the  blind  I 
Which  may  not — dare  to  see — but  turns  aside 
To  blackest  shade — nor  will  endure  a  guide  ! 

XXIII. 

His  heart  was  form'd  for  softness— warp'd  to  wrong  ; 
Betray'd  too  early,  and  beguiled  too  long  ; 
Each  feeling  pure — as  falls  the  dropping  dew 
Within  the  grot ;  like  that  had  harden'd  too  ; 
Less  clear,  perchance,  its  earthly  trials  pass'd. 
But  sunk,  and  chill'd,  and  petrified  at  la.-t. 
Yet  tempests  wear,  and  lightening  cleaves  the  rock, 
If  such  his  heart,  so  shatter'd  it  the  shock. 
There  grew  one  flower  beneath  its  rugged  brow, 
Though  dark  the  shade — it  shelf er'd— saved  till  now. 
The  thunder  came — that  bolt  hath  blasted  both, 
The  Granite's  firmness,  and  the  Lily's  growth  : 
The  gentle  plant  hath  left  no  leaf  to  tell 
Its  tale,  but  shrunk  and  wither'd  where  it  fell. 
And  of  its  cold  protector,  blacken  round 
But  shiver'd  fragments  on  the  barren  ground  ! 

XXIV. 

'Tis  morn — to  venture  on  his  lonely  hour 

Few  dare  ;  though  now  Anselmo  sought  his  tower. 


376  THE  CORSxVIR. 

He  wjis  not  there — nor  «een  alone;  the  shore  ; 

Ere  ni^'ht,  alarniM,  their  i.'le  is  traversed  o'er : 

Another  morn  —another  hiils  them  seek, 

And  shont  his  name  till  echo  waxeth  weak ; 

Mount — grotto — cavern— valley  search'il  in  vain, 

Tliey  find  on  shore  a  sea-boat's  broken  chain  : 

Tlieir  hope  revives — they  follow  o'er  tlie  maiii. 

'Tis  idle  all — moons  roll  on  moons  away, 

And  Conrad  comes  not — came  not  since  that  day  : 

Nor  trace,  nor  tidins^s  of  his  doom  declare 

A\^here  lives  his  ,;,^rief,  or  perish'd  his  despair ! 

Loni,'-  niourn'd  his  band  whom  none  could  mourn  beside  : 

And  fair  the  nioiuaiient  they  g'ave  his  bride  : 

For  him  thi-y  riiise  not  the  recording-  stone — 

His  death  yet  dubious,  deeds  too  widely  kjjown  ; 

He  left  a  Corsair's  name  to  other  limes, 

Link'd  with  one  virtue,  and  a  thousand  crimes.  (17) 


END  OF  THE  CORSAIR. 


N  O  T  E  S. 


The  time  in  this  poem  m;iy  seem  too  short  for  the  occur- 
rences, but  the  whole  of  the  .Esfeati  isles  are  within  a  few 
hours'  sail  of  the  continent,  and  tlie  reader  must  be  kind  enouj^h 
to  take  the  vind  as  I  have  often  found  it. 

(1.) 
Of  fair  Olympia  loved  and  kfl  of  old. 
Orlando,  Canto  10. 

(^■) 
Around  the  waves'  phosphoric  brightness  broke- 
By  night,  p:irticularly  in  a  warm  latitude,  every  «troke  of  thp 
oar,  every  motion  of  the  boat  or  ship,  is  followed  by  a  slight 
flash  like  sheet  lightning  from  the  water. 

(3.) 
Though  to  the  rest  the  sober  berry's  juice. 
Coffee. 

(4.) 

The  long  Chibouque' s  dissolving  cloud  supply. 

Pipe. 

(5.) 
While  dance  the  Almas  to  ivild  jninstrelsy. 
Dancing  girls. 

Note  to  Canto  II.  page  91,  line  5. 

It  has  been  objected  that  Conrad's  enterint?  disguised  as  a 
spy  is  out  of  nature. — Perhaps  so.  I  find  something  not  unlike 
it  in  history. 

"  Anxious  to  explore  with  his  own  eyes  the  slate  of  the 
Vandals,  Majorian  ventured,  after  disguising  the  colour  of  his 
hair,  to  visit  Cartilage  in  the  character  of  his  own  ambassador  ; 
and  Genseric  was  alterwards  niortiliei!  by  the  discovery,  that  he 
had  entertained  and  dismissed  the  Emperor  of  tlit^  Romans. 
Such  an  anecdote  may  be  rejected  as  an  improbable   liirtion  : 

2  I  2 


378  NOTES    TO   THE    CORSAIR. 

but  it  is  a  ficlion  wliicii  would  not  have  been  imas;ineJ  unless 
in  the  lite  ol'  a  hero."     Gihboji,  D.  and  F.  Fot.  VI.  p.  180. 

That  Conrad  is  a  character  not  altogether  out  ot  nature  I 
shall  attempt  to  prove  by  some  historical  coincidences  which  I 
have  met  witli  since  writin^^  "  The  Corsair." 

"  Ecrelin  prisoniiier,"  (lit  Rolandini,  "  s'enfermoit  dans  uti 
silence  menayant,  il  fixoit  sur  la  terre  son  visaq,e  teroce,  et  ne 
donnoit  point  d'essor  a  sa  prolonde  indignation. — De  toutes 
parts  cependant  les  soldats  et  les  peuples  accouroient ;  ils  vo\i- 
loient  voir  cet  homme,  jadis  si  puissant,  et  la  joie  universelle 

eclatoitde  toutes  parts. 

•  •  «  •  • 

"  Eccelin  etoit  d'une  petite  taille  ;  mais  tout  I'aspect  de  sa 
personne,  tons  ses  mouvement,  indiipioient  uii  soldat. —  Son 
langage  etoit  amer,  son  deportement  superb^ — et  par  son  seul 
egard,  il  iaisoit  trembler  les  plus  hardis."  Histiumdi,  tome  III. 
pitge  219,  229. 

"  Cizericus  (Genseric,  king  of  the  Vandals,  the  conqueror 
ot  both  Carthage  and  Rome,)  statura  mediooris,  et  equi  casu 
claudicans,'  animo  profundus,  sermone  rarus,  luxurise  contemp- 
tor,  iru  turbsdus,  habentli  ciipidus,  ad  solicitandas  geutes  pro- 
videntissimus,"  &c.  <fec.  J'^r/nuales  de  Rebus  Gefiris,t:'S^. 

I  beg  leave  to  quote  lliese  gloomy  realities  to  keep  in  coun- 
tenance my  Giaour  and  Corsair. 

(G.) 

^nd  my  stern  voir  and  order's  laws  oppose. 

The  Dervises  are  in  colleges,  and  of  ditlerent  orders,  as  the 
monks. 

(7.) 
They  seize  that  Dervise ! — seize  on  Zatanai ! 
Satan. 

(8.) 
He  tore  his  beard,  and  foaming  fled  the  fight- 
A  common  and  not  veiy  novel  ett'ect  of  Mussulman  anger. 
See  Prince  Eugene's  Memoirs,  pai^e  24.     "  Tlie  Seraskier  re- 
ceived a  wound  in  the  thigh  ;  he  plucked  up  his  beard  hy  liie 
rooLs,  because  he  was  obliged  to  quit  the  field." 

(9.) 

Brief  time  had  Conrad  now  to  greet  Gulnare- 

Gulnare,  a  female  namej  it  means,  literary,  the  flower  of 
pomegranate. 

(10.) 

Till  even  the  scaffold  echoes  with  their  jest  f 
In   Sir  Thomas  Moore,   lor  instance,  on  the  scalFold,  and 
Anne  Boleyn,  in  the  Tower,  when  grasping  iier  neck,  she 


NOTES    TO    THE    CORSAIR.  3*9 

remarked,  that  it  "  was  too  slender  to  trouble  the  head?maii 
much."  Durintc  one  part  of  the  French  Revolution  it  became 
a  fashion  to  leave  some  "  mot"  as  a  legacy ;  and  the  quantity 
of  I'acelious  last  words  spoken  during  that  period  would  form  a 
melancholy  jest  book  of  a  considerable  size. 

(11.) 
That  clos'd  their  murder\l  sage's  latest  day  ! 

Socrates  drank  the  hemlock  a  short  time  before  sunset  (the 
hour  of  execution,)  notwithstanding  the  entreaties  of  his  disci- 
ples to  wait  till  the  sun  went  down. 

(12.) 
The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign. 

The  twilight  in  Greece  is  much  shorter  than  in  our  owa 
country :  the  days  in  winter  are  longer,  but  in  summer  of 
shorter  duration. 

(13.) 

71ie  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  Kiosk. 

The  Kiosk  is  a  Turkish  summer-house  :  the  palm  is  without 
the  present  walls  of  Athens,  not  far  from  the  temple  of  The- 
seus, between  which  and  the  tree  tiie  wall  intiTveiies. — Cephi- 
sus'  stream  is  indeed  scajity,  and  Ilissus  has  no  stieam  at  all. 

(H.) 

That  frown — where  gentler  ocean  seems  to  smile. 

The  opening  lines  as  far  as  section  II.  have,  perhaps,  little 
business  here,  and  were  annexed  to  an  unpublished  (though 
printed)  poem  ;  but  they  were  written  on  the  spot  in  the  spring 
of  ISli,  and— I  scarce  know  why — the  reader  must  excuse 
their  appearance  here  if  he  can.  ' 

(15.) 

His  only  bends  in  seeming  o'er  his  beads. 

The  Comboloio,  or  Mahometan  rosary ;  the  beads  are  in 
number  ninety-niue. 

(16.) 

Jlnd  the  eold  fiowers  her  colder  Imnd  contain' d. 

In  the  Levant  it  is  the  custom  to  strew  flowers  on  the  bodies 
of  the  dead,  and  in  the  hands  of  young  persons  to  place  a 
nosegay. 

(17.) 

Linked  with  one  virtue,  and  a  thousand  aimes- 

That  the  point  of  honour  wich  is  represented  in  one  instance 
of  Conrad's  character  has  not  been  carried  be3ond  llie  bounds 
®f  probability  may  perhaps  be  in  some  degree  confunicd  by  the 
following  anecdote  of  a  brother  buccaneer  in  the  year  1814. 


380  NOTES   TO   THE   CORSAIR. 

Our  readers  have  all  seen  the  account  of  the  enterprise 
against  the  pirates  of  Barrataria ;  but  few,  we  believe,  were 
informed  of  the  situation,  history,  or  nature  of  that  establish- 
ment. For  the  information  of  such  as  were  unac(iuainted  with 
it,  we  have  procured  from  a  friend  the  following  interesting 
narrative  of  the  main  facts,  of  which  he  has  personal  know- 
ledge, and  which  cannot  fail  to  interest  some  of  our  readers. 

Banataria  is  a  bay,  or  a  narrow  arm  of  the  gulf  of  Mexico  : 
it  runs  through  a  rich  but  very  flat  country,  until  it  reaches 
within  a  mile  of  the  Mississippi  river,  fifteen  miles  below  the 
city  of  New  Orleans.  The  bay  has  branches  almost  innume- 
rable, in  which  persons  can  lie  concealed  from  the  severest 
scrutiny.  It  communicates  with  three  lakes  which  lie  on  the 
southwest  side,  and  these,  with  the  lake  of  the  .same  name, 
and  which  lies  contiguous  to  the  sea,  where  there  is  an  island 
formed  by  the  two  arms  of  this  lake  and  the  sea.  The  east  and 
west  points  of  this  island  were  fortified,  in  the  year  1811,  by  a 
band  of  pirates  under  tiie  command  of  one  Monsieur  La  Fitte. 
A  large  majority  of  these  outlaws  are  of  that  class  of  the  popu- 
lation of  the  state  of  Louisiana  who  fled  from  the  inland  of  St. 
Domingo  during  the  troubles  there,  and  took  refuge  in  the  island 
of  Cuba  :  and  when  the  last  war  between  France  and  Spain 
commenced,  they  were  compelled  to  leave  that  island  with  the 
short  notice  of  a  few  days.  Without  ceremony,  they  entered 
the  United  States,  the  most  of  them  the  slate  of  Louisiana, 
with  all  the  negroes  they  had  possessed  in  Cuba.  They  were 
notified  by  (he  Governor  of  that  State  of  the  clause  in  tht»  con- 
stitution which  iorbad  the  importation  of  slaves  ;  but,  at  the 
same  time,  received  the  assurance  of  the  Governor  that  he 
would  obtain,  if  possible,  the  approbation  of  the  General  Go- 
vernment for  their  retaining  this  property. 

The  Island  of  Barrataria  is  situated  about  lat.  29  deg.  15 
min.  Ion.  92.  .30,  and  is  remarkable  for  its  health  as  for  the  su- 
perior scale  and  shell  fish  with  which  it  waters  abound.  The 
chief  of  this  horde,  like  Charles  de  Moor,  had  mixed  with  his 
many  vices  some  virtues.  In  the  year  181.3,  this  party  had,  from 
its  turpitude  and  boldness,  claimed  the  attention  of  the  Gover- 
nor of  Louisiana ;  and  to  break  up  the  establishment,  he  thought 
proper  to  strike  at  the  head.  He,  therefore,  offered  a  reward  of 
500  dollars  for  the  head  of  liloiisieur  La  Fitte,  who  was  well 
known  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  city  of  New  Orleans,  from  his 
immediate  connexion,  and  his  once  having  been  a  fencing-mas- 
ter in  that  city  of  great  reputation,  which  art  he  learnt  in  Buona- 
parte's army,  where  he  was  a  cajjtain.  The  reward  which  was 
offered  by  the  Governor  for  the  head  of  La  Fitte  was  answered 
by  the  offer  of  a  reward  trom  the  latter  of  15,000  for  the  head 
of  the  Governor.  The  Governor  ordered  out  a  company  to 
march  from  the  city  to  La  Fitte's  island,  and  to  burn  and  destroy 
all  the  property,  and  to  bring  to  the  city  of  New  Orleans  all  his 


NOTES    TO    THE    CORSAIR.  381 

banditti.  Tliis  compiiii)-,  (inder  tlie  comniiind  of  a  man  who 
had  been  the  intimate  associate  ot  this  bold  Captain,  approached 
very  near  to  the  fortified  island,  before  he  saw  a  man,  or  heard 
a  sound,  until  he  heard  a  whistle,  not  unlike  a  boatswain's  call. 
I'hen  it  was  he  found  himself  surrounded  by  armed  men,  who 
had  emerged  from  the  secret  avenues  which  led  into  Bayou. 
Here  it  was  tbat  the  modern  Charles  de  Moor  developed  his 
lew  noble  trails  ;  for  to  this  man,  who  had  come  to  destroy  his 
life  and  all  that  was  dear  to  him,  he  not  only  spared  his  life, 
but  offered  him  that  which  would  have  made  the  honest  soldier 
easy  for  the  remainder  of  his  days,  which  was  indicjnantly  re- 
fused. He  then,  with  the  approliation  of  his  captor,  returiied 
to  the  city.  This  circumstance,  and  some  concomitant  events, 
proved  that  this  band  of  pirates  was  not  to  be  taken  by  land. 
Our  naval  force  having  always  been  small  in  that  quarter,  ex- 
ertions for  the  destruction  of  this  illicit  establishment  could  not 
Be  exijtfcted  i'rom  them  until  augmented  ;  for  an  officer  of  the 
navy,  with  most  of  thegini-lioals  on  that  station,  had  to  retreat 
from  an  overwhelming  force  of  La  Fitte's.  So  soon  as  the 
angmentation  of  the  navy  authorized  an  attack,  one  was  made  ; 
the  overthrow  of  this  banditti  has  been -the  result ;  and  now  this 
almost  invulnerable  point  and  key  to  New  Orleans  is  clear  of 
an  enemy,  it  is  to  be  hoped  the  government  will  hold  it  by  a 
strong  military  force. — From  an  ylmerican  Newspaper, 

In  Noble's  continuation  of  Granger's  Biographical  History, 
there  is  a  singular  passage  in  bis  account  of  archbishop  Black- 
bourne,  and  as  in  some  measure  connected  with  the  profession 
of  the  hero  of  the  foregoing  poem,  I  cauuot  resist  the  temp- 
tation of  extracting  it. 

"  There  is  something  mysterious  in  the  history  and  character 
of  Dr.  Blackbourne.  The  former  is  but  imperfectly  known  ; 
and  report  has  been  asserted  he  was  a  buccaneer ;  and  that  one 
of  his  brethren  in  that  profession  having  asked,  on  his  arrival 
in  England,  what  had  become  of  his  old  chum,  Blackbourne, 
was  answered,  he  is  archbishop  of  York.  We  are  informed, 
that  Blackbourne  was  installed  sub-dean  of  Exeter,  in  1094, 
which  office  he  resigned  in  1702  ;  but  after  his  successor  Lewis 
Barnet's  death,  in"  1704,  he  regained  it.  In  the  following 
year  he  became  dean;  and  in  1714,  held  with  it  the  urch- 
deanery  of  Cornwall.  He  was  consecrated  bishop  of  Exeter, 
February  24,  1716;  and  translated  to  York,  November  28, 
1724,  as  a  reward,  according  to  court  scandal,  for  uniting 
George  I.  to  the  Uuchos  of  Munster.  This,  however,  appears 
to  have  been  an  unfounded  calumny.  As  archbishop  he  be- 
haved with  great  prudence,  and  was  equally  respectable  as  the 
guardian  of  the  revenues  of  the  see.  Humour  whispered  he 
retained  the  vices  of  his  youth,  and  that  u  passion  for  the  fair 


382  NOTES  TO   THE    CORSAIB. 

sex  formed  an  item  in  the  list  of  his  weaknesses ;  but  so  far 
from  being  convicted  by  seventy  witnesses,  he  does  not  appear 
to  have  been  directly  criminated  by  one.  In  short,  I  look  upon 
these  aspersions  as  the  effects  of  mere  malice.  How  is  it  pos- 
sible a  buccaneer  should  have  been  so  good  a  scholar  as  Black- 
bourne  certainly  was?  he  who  bad  so  perfect  a  knowledge  of 
the  classics  (particularly  of  the  Greek  tragedians),  as  to  be 
able  to  read  them  with  the  same  ease  as  he  could  Shakspeare, 
must  have  taken  great  pains  to  acquire  the  learned  languages  ; 
and  have  had  both  good  leisure  and  good  masters.  But  he  was 
undoubtedly  educated  at  Christ-church  College,  Oxford.  He 
is  allowed  to  have  been  a  pleasant  man :  this,  however,  was 
turned  against  him,  by  its  being  said,  '  he  gained  njore  hearts 
than  souls.' " 


"  The  only  voice  that  could  soothe  the  passions  of  the  savage 
{Alphonso  3d)  was  that  of  an  amiable  and  virtuous  wife,  the 
sole  object  of  his  Jove ;  the  voice  of  Donna  Isabella,  the 
daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Savoy,  and  the  grand-daughter  of 
Philip  2d.  King  of  Spain. — Her  dying  words  sunk  deep  into 
his  memory  ;  his  fierce  spirit  melted  into  tears  ;  and  after  the 
last  embrace,  Alphonso  retire«  into  his  chamber  to  bewail  his 
irreparable  loss,  and  to  oeditate  on  the  vanity  of  human  life." 
— Miscellaneous  fVorks  of  Gibbon,  ffew  Edition,  8vo.  vol.  3, 
page  473.  , 


LARA, 


A    TALE. 


CANTO   I. 


The  Serfs  are  glad  through  Lara's  wide  domain. 

And  Slavery  half  forgets  her  feudal  chain  ; 

He,  their  unhoped,  but  unforgotten  lord, 

The  long  self-exiled  chieftain  is  restored  : 

There  be  bright  faces  in  the  busy  hall. 

Bowls  on  the  board,  and  banners  on  the  wall ; 

Far  checquering  o'er  the  pictnred  window,,  plays 

The  unwonted  faggots'  hospitable  blaze  ; 

And  gay  retainers  gather  round  the  hearth, 

With  tongues  all  loudness,  and  with  eyes  all  mirth. 

II. 

The  chief  of  Lara  has  retum'd  again  : 
And  why  had  Lara  cross'd  the  bounding  main  ? 
T^ft  by  his  sire,  too  young  such  loss  to  know, 
Lord  of  himself; — that  heritage  of  woe. 
That  fearful  empire  which  the  human  breast 
But  holds  to  rob  the  heart  within  of  rest  !— 
With  none  to  check,  and  few  to  point  in  time 
The  thousand  paths  that  sloi)e  the  way  1o  crime  ; 
Then,  when  he  most  required  commandment  then 
Had  Lara's  daring  boyhood  govern'd  men. 
It  skills  not,  boots  not  step  by  step  to  trace 
His  youth  through  all  the  mazes  of  its  race  ; 
Short  was  the  course  his  restlessness  had  run, 
But  long  enough  to  leave  him  half  undone. 


384  LARA. 


III. 


And  Lnra  left  in  youth  his  father-land  ; 
But  from  the  hour  he  waved  his  parting  hand 
Each  trace  wax'd  fainter  of  his  course,  till  all 
Had  nearly  ceas'd  his  memory  to  recall. 
His  sire  was  dust,  his  vassals  could  declare, 
'Twas  all  they  knew,  that  Lara  was  not  there  ; 
Nor  sent,  nor  came  he,  till  conjecture  grew 
Cold  in  the  many,  anxious  in  the  lew. 
His  hall  scarce  echoes  with  his  wonted  name, 
His  portrait  darkens  in  its  fading  frame. 
Another  chief  consoled  his  destined  hride, 
The  young  I'orgot  him,  and  the  old  had  died  : 
"  Yet  doth  he  live  !"  exclaims  the  impatient  heir, 
And  sighs  for  sables  which  he  must  not  wt*ar, 
A  htmdred  scutcheons  deck  with  o-loomy  grace 
The  Laras'  last  and  longest  dweliinsr-place  ; 
But  one  is  absent  from  the  mouhlcrinir  file. 
That  now  were  welcome  in  that  Gothic  pile. 

IV. 

Ho  comes  at  last  in  sudden  loneliness, 

And  whence  they  know  not,  why  they  need  not  guess ; 

They  more  might  marvel,  when  the  greeting's  o'er, 

Not  that  he  came,  but  came  not  long  before  : 

No  train  is  his  beyond  a  single  page, 

Of  foreign  aspect,  and  of  tender  age. 

Years  liad  roU'd  on,  and  fast  they  speed  away 

To  those  that  wander  as  to  those  that  stay  ; 

But  lack  of  tidings  from  another  clime 

Had  lent  a  flagging  wing  to  weary  Time. 

They  see,  they  recognise,  yet  almost  deem 

The  present  dubious,  or  the  past  a  dream. 

He  lives,  nor  yet  is  past  his  manhood's  prime. 
Though  sear'd  by  toil,  and  something  touch'd  by  time  ; 
His  faults,  whate'er  they  were,  if  scarce  forgot, 
Might  be  untaught  him  by  his  varied  lot; 
Nor  good  or  ill  of  late  were  known,  his  name 
Might  yet  uphokl  his  patrimonial  fame  : 
His  soul  in  youth  was  haughty,  but  his  sins 
No  more  than  pleasure  from  the  stripling  wins  ; 
And  such,  if  not  yet  hardened  in  their  course, 
Might  be  redeem'd,  nor  ask  a  long  remorse. 


LARA.  385 


V. 


And  they  indeed  were  changed— 'tis  quickly  seen, 
Whate'er  he  be,  'twas  not  what  he  had  been  ; 
That  brow  in  furrowM  lines  had  fix'd  at  last. 
And  spake  of  passions,  but  of  passion  past  ; 
The  pride,  but  not  the  fire  of  early  days. 
Coldness  of  mien,  and  carelessness  of  praise  ; 
A  high  demeanour,  and  a  glance  that  took 
Their  thoughts  from  others  by  a  single  look ; 
And  that  sarcastic  levity  of  tongue, 
The  stinging  of  a  heart  the  world  hath  stung,  ^^ 
That  darts  in  seeming  playfulness  around. 
And  makes  those  feel  that  will  not  own  the  wound  ; 
AH  these  seem'd  his,  and  something  more  beneath, 
Than  glance  could  well  reveal,  or  accent  breathe. 
Ambition,  glory,  love,  the  common  aim. 
That  some  can  conquer,  and  that  all  would  claim, 
Within  his  breast  appear'd  no  more  to  strive. 
Vet  seem'd  as  lately  they  had  been  alive  ; 
And  some  deep  feeling  it  were  vain  to  trace 
At  moments  lightened  o'er  bis  livid  face. 

VI. 

Not  much  he  loved  long  question  of  the  past, 
Nor  told  of  wondrous  wilds,  and  deserts  vast. 
In  those  far  lands  where  he  bad  wander 'd  lone, 
^rid— as  himself  would  have  it  seem-  unknown  : 
Yet  these  in  vain  his  eye  could  scarcely  scan, 
Nor  glean  experience  from  his  fellow-man  ; 
But  what  he  bad  beheld  he  shunn'd  to  show, 
As  hardly  worth  a  stranger's  care  to  know  ; 
If  still  more  prying  such  inquiry  grew, 
His  brow  fell  darker,  and  his  words  more  few. 

VII. 

Not  unrejoiced  to  see  him  once  again, 
Warm  was  his  welcome  to  the  haunts  of  men  ; 
Born  of  high  lineage,  link'd  in  high   command. 
He  mingled  with  the  M.-ignates  of  his  land  ; 
Join'd  the  carousals  of  the  great  and  gay, 
And  saw  them  smile  or  sigh  their  hours  away  ; 
But  still  he  only  saw,  and  did  not  share 
The  common  pleasure  or  the  general  care  ; 
He  did  nut  follow  what  they  all  pursued 
With  hope  still  baffled  still  to  be  renew'd  ; 
Nor  shadowy  honour,  nor  substantial  gain. 
Nor  beauty's  preference,  and  the  rival's  pain  : 

2    K 


3S6  LARA. 

Around  him  some  m3=terions  circle  thrown 
llepell'd  approach,  aiidsliow'd  him  still  alone  5 
Upon  hi.s  eje  sate  somethinpf  of  reproof, 
That  kept  at  least  I'rivolitj-  aloof; 
And  things  more  timid  that  beheld  him  near, 
Jn  silence  pfazed,  or  whisper'd  mutual  fear ; 
And  they  the  wiser,  friendlier  few  confest 
They  deem'd  him  better  than  his  air  exprest. 

VIIL 

'Twas  stranpe— in  youth  all  action  and  all  life, 

Burning  for  pleasure,  not  averse  from  strife; 

Woman— the  field — the  ocean— all  that  gave 

Promise  of  gladness,  peril  of  a  grave, 

In  turn  he  tried — he  ransack'd  all  below. 

And  found  his  recompense  in  joy  or  woe, 

No  tame,  trite  medium  ;  for  his  feelings  sought : 

In  that  intenseness  an  escape  from  thought : 

The  tempest  of  his  heart  in  scorn  had  gazed 

On  that  the  feebler  elements  hath  raised  ; 

The  rapture  of  his  heart  had  look'd  on  high, 

And  ask'd  if  greater  dwell  beyond  the  sky  : 

Chain'd  to  excess,  the  slave  of  each  extreme. 

How  woke  he  Irom  the  wildness  of  that  dream  ? 

Alas  !  he  told  not — but  he  did  awake 

To  curse  the  wither 'd  heart  that  would  not  break. 

Books,  for  his  volume  heretofore  was  Man, 

With  eye  more  curious  he  appear'd  to  scan. 

And  oft,  in  sudden  mood,  for  many  a  day 

From  all  communion  he  would  start  away  : 

And  then,  his  rarely  call'd  attendants  said. 

Through  night's  long  hours  would  sound  his  hurried  tread 

O'er  tile  dark  gallery,  where  his  fathers  frown'd 

In  rude  but  antique  portraiture  around  : 

Tliey   heard,  but  whisper'd— <'  i/xit  must  not  be  known— 

"  Tlie  sound  of  words  less  earthly  than  his  own. 

"  Yes,  they  who  chose  might  smile,  but  some  had  seen 

"  They  scarce  knew  what,  but  more  than  should  have  been. 

"  Why  gazed  he  so  u()on  the  ghastly  head 

"  AVIiic'h  hands  profane  had  gatiier'd  from  the  dead, 

"  That  still  beside  the  open'd  volume  lay, 

"  As  if  to  startle  all  save  him  away  ? 

"  Wliy  slept  lie  not  when  others  were  at  rest  ? 

"  Why  heard  no  music,  and  received  no  guest  ? 

"  All  was  not  well,  they  deem'd— but  where  the  wrong  ? 

"  Some  new  perchance— but  'twere  a  tale  too  long  ; 


LARA.  387 

"  And  such  besides  were  too  discreetly  wise, 
"  To  more  than  hint  their  knowledge  in  surmise  ; 
"But  if  they  would — they  could" — around  the  board, 
Thus  Lara's  vassals  prattled  of  their  lord. 

X. 

It  was  the  night — and  Lara's  glassy  stream 

The  stars  are  studding,  each  with  imaged  beam  ; 

So  calm,  the  waters  scarcely  seem  to  stray, 

And  yet  Ibey  glide  like  happiness  away  ; 

Reflecting  far  and  fairy-like  from  high 

The  immortal  lights  that  live  along  the  sky  : 

Its  banks  are  fringed  with  many  a  goodly  tree. 

And  flowers  the  fairest  that  may  feast  the  bee  ; 

Such  in  her  chaplet  ini'ant  Dian  wove. 

And  Innocence  would  otter  to  her  love. 

These  deck  the  shore  ;  the  waves  their  channel  make 

In  windings  bright  and  mazy  like  the  snake. 

All  was  so  still,  so  soft  in  earth  and  air, 

You  scarce  would  st<irt  to  meet  a  spirit  there  ; 

Secure  that  nought  of  evil  could  delight 

To  walk  in  such  a  scene,  on  such  a  night ! 

It  was  a  moment  only  for  the  good  : 

So  Lara  deem'd,  nor  longer  there  he  stood, 

But  turn'd  in  silence  to  his  castle-gate  ; 

Such  scene  his  soul  no  more  could  contemplate : 

Such  scene  reminded  him  of  other  days, 

Of  skies  more  cloudless,  moons  of  purer  blaze. 

Of  nights  more  soft  and  frequent,  hearts  that  now — 

No— no— the  storm  may  beat  upon  his  brow, 

Unfelt— unsparing— but  a  night  like  this, 

A  night  of  beauty,  mock'd  such  breast  as  his. 

XL 

He  turn'd  within  his  solitary  hall. 
And  his  higli  shadow  shot  along  the  wall ; 
There  were  the  painted  forms  of  other  times, 
'Twas  all  they  left  of  virtues  or  of  crimes, 
Siive  vague  tradition;  and  the  gloomy  vaults 
That  hid  their  dust,  their  foibles,  and  their  faults  ; 
And  half  a  column  of  the  pomiious  page, 
That  speeds  the  specious  tale  from  age  to  aae  ; 
Where  history's  pen  its  praise  or  blame  supplies, 
And  lies  like  truth,  and  still  most  truly  lies. 
He  wandering  mused,  and  as  the  moonbeam  shone 
Through  thedim  lattice  o'er  the  floor  of  stone, 
And  the  high  fretted  roof,  and  saints,  that  there 
O'er  Gothic  windows  knelt  in  pictured  prayer, 


LARA, 

Keflected  in  fantastic  figures  grew, 
Like  Hie,  but  not  like  mortttl  lil'e,  to  view  ; 
His  Ijristling  locks  ol  sable,  brow  of  gloom, 
Anil  the  wiile  waving?  ol'  his  shaken  plurne, 
(jlanced  like  a  spectre's  attributes,  anil  gave 
\h»  u^iiect  all  that  terror  gives  the  grave. 

XIL 

»Twas  midnight  —all  was  slumber  ;  the  lone  light 
Dimm'd  in  the  lamp,  as  loth  to  break  the  night. 
Hark  !  thert»  be  murmurs  heard  in  Lara's  hall — 
A  sound — i<  voice — a  shriek — a  i'eari'ul  call  I 
A  long,  loud  shriek — and  silence— did  they  hear 
That  frantic  echo  burst  tlie  sleeping  ear  ? 
They  heard  and  rose,  and  frtmulously  bravb 
Rush  where  the  sound  invoked  their  aid  to  save  } 
They  come  with  hall-lit  tajievs  in  their  bands. 
And  snatch 'd  in  startled  haste  unbelted  brands. 

XH. 

Cold  as  the  marble  where  liis  length  was  laid, 

Pale  as  the  beam  lliat  o'er  his  features  play'd, 

Was  Lara  stretch 'd  ;  his  half  drawn  sabre  near, 

Dropp'd  it  should  seem  in  more  than  nature's  fear  ; 

Yet  he  was  firm,  or  had  been  firm  till  now, 

And  still  defiance  knit  his  gather'd  brow  ; 

Though  mix'd  with  terror,  senseless  as  he  lay, 

There  lived  upon  his  lip  the  wish  to  slay  ; 

Some  half  formed  threat  in  utterance  there  had  died, 

Some  Imprecation  of  despairing  pride  ; 

His  eye  was  almost  seal'd,  but  not  forsook, 

Even  in  its  trance  the  gladiator's  look, 

That  oft  awake  his  aspect  could  disclose, 

And  now  was  fix'd  in  horrible  repose. 

They  raise  him — bear  him  ; — hush  !  he  breathes,  he  speaks. 

The  swarthy  blush  re-colours  in  his  cheeks. 

His  lip  resumes  its  red,  his  eye,  though  dim, 

Rolls  wide  and  wild,  each  slowly  quivering  limb 

Recalls  its  function,  but  his  words  are  strung 

In  terms  that  seem  not  of  his  native  tongue  ; 

Distinct  but  strange,  enough  they  understand 

To  deem  them  accents  of  another  land. 

And  such  they  were,  and  meant  to  meet  an  ear 

That  hears  him  not—  alas !  that  cannot  bear  I 


LARA.  389 


XIV. 


His  page  appvoach'd,  and  he  alone  appear'd 

To  know  the  hnport  of  the  words  they  heard  ; 

And,  by  the  changes  of  his  cheek  and  brow, 

They  were  not  such  as  Lara  should  avow, 

Nor  he  interpret,  yet  with  less  surprise 

Than  those  around  their  chieftain's  state  he  eyesi 

But  Lara's  prostrate  form  he  bent  beside, 

And  in  that  tongue  which  seem'd  his  own  replied. 

And  Lara  heeds  those  tones  that  gently  seem 

To  soothe  away  the  horrors  of  his  dream  ; 

If  dream  it  were,  that  thus  could  overthrow 

A  breast  that  needed  not  ideal  woe. 

XV. 

Whate'er  his  phrensy  dream'd  or  eye  beheld. 
If  yet  remember'd  ne'er  to  be  reveai'd. 
Rests  at  his  heart:  the  custom'd  morning  came, 
And  breathed  new  vigour  in  his  shaken  frame  ; 
And  solace  so\ight  he  none  from  priest  nor  leech, 
And  soon  the  same  in  movement  and  in  speech 
As  heretoibre  he  fiU'd  the  passing  hours. 
Nor  less  he  smiles,  nor  more  his  forehead  lours 
Than  these  were  wont ;  and  if  the  coming  night 
Appear'd  less  welcome  now  to  Lara's  sight, 
He  to  his  marvelling  vassals  show'd  it  not. 
Whose  shuddering  proved  their  fear  was  less  forgot.- 
In  trembling  pairs  (alone  they  dared  not)  crawl 
The  astonish'd  slavjs,  and  sliun  the  fated  hall ; 
The  waving  banner,  and  the  clapping  door, 
The  rustling  tapestry,  and  the  echoing  floor ; 
The  long  dim  shadows  of  surrounding  trees. 
The  flapping  bat,  the  night  song  of  the  breeze  ; 
Aught  they  behold  or  hear  their  thought  appals. 
As  evening  saddens  o'er  the  dark  gray  walls. 

XVL 

Vain  thought  I  that  hour  of  ne'er  nnravell'd  gloom' 
Came  not  again,  or  Lara  could  assume 
A  seeming  of  forget I'ulness,  that  made 
His  vassals  more  amazed  nor  less  afraid — 
Had  memory  vanish'd  then  with  sense  restored  ? 
Since  word,  nor  look,  nor  gesture  of  their  lord 
Betray'd  a  feeling  that  recall'd  to  these 
That  fever'd  moment  of  his  mind's  disease. 
Was  it  a  dream  ?  was  his  the  voice  Ihat  spoke 
Those  strange  wild  accents ;  his  the  crv  that  broke 

2  K  2 


290  LARA. 

Their  slumber  ?  his  the  oppress'd  o'erlabour'd  heart 
That  ceased  to  beat,  the  look  that  made  them  start  ? 
Could  lie  who  thus  had  sufl'er'd,  so  forget, 
When  such  as  saw  that  suft'ering  shudder  yet? 
Or  did  that  silence  prove  his  memory  fix'd 
Too  deep  for  words,  indelible,  unmix'd 
In  that  corroding  secrecy  which  gnaws 
The  heart  to  show  the  etfect,  but  not  the  cause  ? 
Not  so  in  him  ;  his  breast  hath  buried  both, 
Nor  common  gazers  could  discern  the  growth 
Of  thoughts  that  mortal  lips  must  leave  half  told  5 
They  choke  the  feeble  words  that  would  unl'old. 

XVII, 

In  him  inexplicably  mix'd  appear'd 

Much  to  be  loved  and  hated,  sought  and  fear'd  ; 

Opinion  varying  o'er  his  hidden  lot. 

In  praise  or  njiling  ne'er  bis  name  forgot: 

His  silence  fonn'd  a  theme  for  others' prate — 

They  guess'u — they  gazed— they  fain  would  know  his  fate. 

What  had  he  been  ?  what  was  he,  thus  unknown. 

Who  walk'd  their  world,  his  lineage  only  known  ? 

A  hater  of  his  kind  ?  yet  some  would  say, 

AVith  them  he  could  seem  gay  amidst  the  gay  ; 

But  own'd  that  smile  if  oft  observM  and  near, 

Waned  in  its  mirth,  and  wither'd  to  a  sneer  ; 

That  smile  might  reach  bis  lip,  but  pass'd  not  by, 

None  e'er  could  trace  its  laughter  to  his  eye  : 

Yet  there  was  softness  too  in  his  regard. 

At  times  a  heart,  as  not  by  nature  hard, 

But  once  perceived,  his  spirit  seem'd  to  chide 

Such  weakness,  as  unworthy  of  its  pride. 

And  steel'd  itself,  as  scorning  to  redeem 

One  doubt  from  others'  half  withheld  esteem  ; 

In  sell-inflicted  penance  of  a  breast 

Which  tenderness  might  once  have  wrung  from  rest  ^ 

In  vigilance  of  grief  that  would  compel 

The  soul  to  hate  for  having  loved  too  well. 

XVIII. 

There  was  in  him  a  vital  scorn  of  all : 
As  if  the  worst  had  fall'n  which  could  befall, 
He  stood  a  stranger  in  this  breathing  world. 
An  erring  spirit  from  another  hurPd  ; 
A  thing  of  dark  imaginings,  that  shaped 
By  choice  the  perils  he  by  chance  escaped  ; 
But  'scaped  in  vain,  for  in  their  memory  yet 
His  mind  would  half  exult  and  half  regret : 


'  LARA.  391 

With  more  capacity  for  love  than  earth 

Bestows  on  most  of  mortal  mould  and  birth. 

His  early  dreams  of  good  outstripped  the  truth, 

And  troubled  manhood  follow'd  baffled  youth  ; 

With  thought  of  years  in  phantom  chase  misspent, 

And  wasted  powers  for  better  purpose  lent; 

And  fiery  passions  that  had  pour'd  their  wrath 

In  hurried  desolation  o'er  his  path, 

And  left  the  better  feelings  all  at  strife 

In  wild  reflection  o'er  his  stormy  life  ; 

But  haughty  still,  and  loth  himself  to  blame, 

lie  call'd  on  Nature's  self  to  share  the  shame. 

And  charged  all  faults  upon  the  fleshly  form 

She  gave  to  clog  the  soul,  and  feast  the  worm  ; 

Till  he  at  last  confounded  good  and  ill, 

And  half  mistook  for  fate  the  acts  of  will : 

Too  high  for  common  selfishness,  he  could 

At  times  resign  his  own  for  others'  good, 

But  not  in  pity,  not  because  he  ought, 

But  in  some  strange  perversity  of  thought. 

That  sway'd  him  onward  with  a  secret  pride 

To  do  what  few  or  none  would  do  beside ; 

And  this  same  impulse  would,  in  tempting  time,. 

Mislead  his  spirit  equally  to  crime  : 

So  much  he  soar'd  beyond,  or  sunk  beneath 

The  men  with  whom  he  felt  condemned  to  breathe, 

And  long'd  by  good  or  ill  to  separate 

Himself  from  all  who  shared  his  mortal  state  ; 

His  mind  abhorring  this  had  fix'd  her  throne 

Far  from  the  world,  in  regions  of  her  own : 

Thus  coldly  passing  all  that  pass'd  below. 

His  blood  in  temperate  seeming  now  would  flow  : 

Ah  !  happier  if  it  ne'er  with  guilt  had  glow'd. 

But  ever  in  that  icy  smoothness  flow'd  ! 

'Tis  true,  with  other  men  their  path  he  walked. 

And  like  the  rest  in  seeming  did  and  talk'd. 

Nor  outraged  Reason's  rules  by  flaw  nor  start, 

His  madness  was  not  of  the  head,  but  heart ; 

And  rarely  wandev'd  in  his  speech,  or  drew 

His  thoughts  so  forth  as  to  offend  the  view. 

XIX. 

With  all  that  chilling  mystery  of  mien, 

And  seeming  gladness  to  remain  unseen. 

He  had  (if  'twere  not  nature's  boon)  an  art  ' 

Of  fixing  memory  on  another's  heart : 

It  was  not  love  perchance — nor  hate — nor  aught 

That  words  can  image  to  express  the  thought  j 


,392  LARA. 

But  they  who  saw  him  did  not  see  in  vain, 
And  once  beheld,  would  ask  of  him  again  : 
And  those  to  whom  he  spake  remember'd  well. 
And  on  the  words,  however  light,  would  dwell : 
None  knew,  nor  bow,  nor  why,  but  he  entwined 
Himself  perforce  around  the  hearer's  mind  ; 
There  he  was  stamped,  in  liking,  or  in  hate. 
If  greeted  once  ;  however  brief  the  date 
That  friendship,  pity,  or  aversion  knew, 
Still  there  within  the  inmost  thought  he  grew. 
You  could  not  penetrate  his  soul,  but  found. 
Despite  your  wonder,  to  your  own  he  wound  ; 
His  presence  haunted  still ;  and  from  the  breast 
He  forced  an  all  unwilling  interest : 
Vain  was  the  struggle  in  that  mental  net. 
His  spirit  seem'd  to  dare  you  to  forget ! 

XX. 

There  is  a  festival,  where  knights  and  damesy 
And  aught  that  wealth  or  lofty  lineage  claims 
Appear — a  highborn  and  a  welcome  guest 
To  Otho's  hall  came  Lara  with  the  rest. 
The  long  carousal  shakes  the  illumined  hall,. 
Well  speeiis  alike  tlie  banquet  and  the  ball  ; 
And  the  gay  dance  of  bounding  beauty's  train 
Links  grace  and  harmony  in  happpiest  chain  : 
Blest  are  the  early  hearts  and  gentle  hands 
That  mingle  there  in  well  according  bands  ; 
It  is  a  sight  the  careful  brow  might  smooth, 
And  make  Age  smile,  and  dream  itself  to  youth. 
And  Youth  forget  such  hour  was  pass'd  on  earth, 
So  springs  the  exulting  bosom  to  that  mirth  ! 

XXI. 

And  Lara  gazed  on  these  sedately  glad, 
His  brow  belied  him  if  his  soul  was  sad  ; 
And  his  glance  follow'd  fast  each  fluttering  fair. 
Whose  steps  of  lightness  woke  no  echo  there  : 
He  lean'd  against  the  lofty  pillar  nigh. 
With  i'okled  arms  and  long  attentive  eye, 
Nor  mark'd  a  glance  so  sternly  fix'd  on  his— 
111  brook'd  high  Lara  scrutiny  like  this  : 
At  length  he  caught  it,  'tis  a  face  unknown, 
But  seems  as  searching  his,  and  his  alone  ; 
Prying  and  dark,  a  stranger's  by  his  mien,  ' 
Who  stiirtill  now  had  gazed  on  him  unsean  ; 
At  length  encountering  the  mutual  gaze 
Of  keen  inquirj',  and  of  mute  amaze  j. 


/  Lara.  393 

On  Lara's  glance  emotion  gathering  grew, 

As  if  distrusting  that  the  stranger  threw  ; 

Along  the  stranger's  aspect  fix'il  and  stern, 

FlashM  more  than  thence  the  vulgar  eye  could  learn. 

xxn. 

"  'Tis  he  ! "  the  stranger  cried,  and  those  that  beard 

Re-echoed  fast  and  far  the  whi^per'd  word. 

"  'Tis  he  I" — 'tis  who  ?"  they  question  far  and  near, 

Till  louder  accents  rung  on  Lara's  ear : 

So  widely  spread,  few  bosoms  well  could  brook 

The  general  marvel,  or  that  single  look  ; 

But  Lara  stirr'd  not,  changed  not,  the  surprise 

That  sprung  at  first  to  his  arrested  eyes 

Seem'd  now  subsided,  neither  sunk  nor  raised 

Glanced  his  eye  round,  though  still  the  stranger  gazed; 

And  drav.'lng  nigh  exclaimed,  with  haughty  sneer, 

"Tis  he  ! — how  came  he  thence?— what  doth  he  here  ?" 

XXIIL 

It  were  too  much  for  Lara  to  p:iss  by 

Such  questions,  so  repeated  fierce  and  high  ; 

With  look  collected,  and  with  accent  cold, 

More  mildly  firm  than  petulant!)'  bold. 

He  turn'd,  and  met  the  inquisitorial  tone — 

"  My  name  is  Lara  !  when  thine  own  is  known 

"  Doubt  not  my  fitting  answer  to  requite 

"  The  unlook'd  for  courtesy  of  such  a  knight. 

"  'Tis  Lara  ! — further  wouldst  thou  mark  or  ask  ? 

<♦  r  shun  no  question,  and  I  wear  no  mask-" 

"  Thou  shun'st  no  question  !   Ponder — is  there  none 
"  Thy  heart  must  answer,  tho'  thine  ear  would  shun  ? 
"  And  deem'st  thou  me  unknown  too?  Gaze  again  1 
"  At  least  thy  memory  was  not  given  in  vain, 
"  Oh  !  never  can'st  thou  cancel  half  her  debt, 
"  Eternity  forbids  thee  to  forget." 
With  slow  and  searching  glance  upon  his  face 
Grew  Lara's  eyes,  but  nottang  there  could  trace 
They  knew,  or  chose  to  know — witii  dubious  look 
He  deign 'd  no  answer,  but  his  head  he  shook, 
And  half  contemptuous  turn'd  to  pass  away  ; 
But  the  stern  stranger  motion 'd  him  to  stay. 
"  A  word  I — I  charge  thee  stay,  and  answer  here 
"  To  one,  who,  wert  tliou  noble,  were  thy  i)eer, 
"  But  as  thou  wast  and  art— nay,  frown  not,  lord,. 
"  U  false,  'tis  easy  to  disprove  the  word — 


■58^  LARA. 

"  But,  as  thou  wast  ami  art,  on  thee  looks  down, 
'<  Distrusts  tiiy  smiles,  but  shakes  not  at  thy  frown. 

"  Art  thou  not  he  ?  whose  deeds " 

"  Whate'er  I  be, 
"  Words  wild  as  these,  accusers  like  to  thee 
"  I  list  no  further  ;  those  with  whom  they  weigh 
"  May  hear  the  rest,  nor  venture  to  gainsay 
"  The  wondrous  tale  no  doubt  thy  tongue  can  tell, 
*'  Which  thus  begins  so  courteously  and  well. 
"  Let  Otho  cherish  here  his  polish'd  guest, 
"  To  him  my  thanks  and  thoughts  shall  be  exprest." 
And  here  their  wondering  host  hath  interposed — 
"  Whate'er  there  be  between  you  undisclosed, 
"  This  is  no  time  nor  fitting  place  to  mar 
*'  The  mirthful  meeting  with  a  wordy  war. 
"  If  thou,  Sir  Ezzelin,  hast  augbt  to  shoW'i- 
"  Which  it  befits  Count  Lara's  ear  to  know, 
'<  To-morrow,  here,  or  elsewhere,  as  may  best 
"  Beseem  your  mutual  judgment,  speak  the  rest : 
"  I  pledge  myself  for  thee,  as  not  unknown, 
<'  Though  like  Count  Lara  now  return'd  alone 
"  From  other  lands,  almost  a  stranger  grown  ; 
"  And  if  from  Lara's  blood  and  gentle  birth 
"  I  augur  right  of  courage  and  of  worth, 
"  He  will  not  that  untainted  line  belie, 
"  Nor  aught  that  knighthood  may  accord,  deny." 

"  To-morrow  be  it,"  Ezzelin  replied, 

"  And  here  our  several  worth  and  truth  be  tried ; 

"  I  gage  my  life  my  falchion  to  attest 

"  My  words,  so  may  I  mingle  with  the  hlest !" 

What  answers  Lara  ?    to  its  centre  shrunk 

His  soul,  in  deep  abstraction  sudden  sunk  ; 

The  words  of  many,  and  the  eyes  of  all 

That  there  were  gather'd,  seem'd  on  him  to  fall ; 

Bnt  his  were  silent,  his  appear'd  to  stray 

In  far  forgetfulness  away — away — 

Alas  !  that  heedlessness  of  all  around 

Bespoke  remembrance  only  too  profouud. 

XXIV. 

"  To-morrow  ! — ay,  to-morrow  !"  further  word 
Than  those  repeated  none  from  Lara  heard  ; 
Upon  his  brow  no  outward  passion  spoke. 
From  his  large  eye  no  flashing  anger  broke  ; 
Yet  there  W'as  something  fix'd  in  that  low  tone 
Which  show'd  resolve,  determin'd,  though  unknown. 
He  seized  his  cloak— his  head  he  slightly  bow'd. 
And  passing  Ezzelin,  he  left  the  crowd  ; 


LARA.  395 

And,  as  he  pass'dhim,  smiling  met  the  ftown 

AVith  which  that  chieftain's  brow  would  bear  him  down  : 

It  was  nor  smile  of  mirth,   nor  strugjiTling  pride 

That  curbs  to  scorn  the  wrath  it  cannot  hide  ; 

But  that  of  one  in  his  own  heart  secure 

Of  all  that  he  would  do,  or  could  endure. 

Could  this  mean  peace?    the  calmness  of  the  good? 

Or  guilt  grown  old  in  desperate  hardihood  ? 

Alas  !  too  like  in  confidence  are  each. 

For  man  to  trust  to  mortal  look  or  speech  ; 

From  deeds,  and  deeds  alone,  may  he  discern 

Truths  which  it  wrings  the  unpractised  heart  to  learn. 

XXV. 

And  Lara  call'd  his  page,  and  went  his  i;t'ay — 
Well  could  that  stripling  word  or  sign  obey  : 
His  only  follower  from  those  climes  afar, 
Where  the  soul  glows  beneath  a  brighter  star; 
For  Lara  left  the  shore  from  whence  he  sprung, 
In  duty  patient,  and  sedate  though  }Oung ; 
Silent  as  him  he  served,  his  faith  appears 
Above  his  station,  and  beyond  his  years. 
Though  not  unknown  the  tongue  of  Lara's  land. 
In  such  from  him  he  rarely  heard  command  ; 
But  fleet  his  step,  and  clear  his  tones  would  come, 
When  Lara's  lip  breath'd  forth  the  words  of  home  : 
Those  accents  as  his  native  mountains  dear. 
Awake  their  absent  echoes  in  his  ear. 
Friends',  kindreds'  parents',  wonted  Voice  recall. 
Now  lost,  abjured,  lor  one  — his  friend,  his  all : 
For  him  earth  now  disclosed  no  oilier  guide  ; 
What  marvel  then  he  rarely  left  his  side  ? 

XXVL 

Light  was  his  form,  and  darkly  delicate 

That  brow  whereon  bis  native  sun  had  sate. 

But  had  not  niarr'd  though  in  his  beams  he  grew. 

The  cheek  where  oft  the  unbidden  blush  shone  through  ; 

Yet  not  such  blush  as  mounts  when  health  would  show 

All  the  heart's  hue  in  that  thdighted  glow; 

But  'twas  a  hectic  tint  of  secret  care 

TJjat  for  a  burning  moment  fever'd  there  ; 

And  the  wild  sparkle  of  his  eye  seem'd  caught 

From  high,  and  ligliten'd  witli  electric  thought. 

Though  its  black  orb  those  long  low  lashes  fringe. 

Had  temper'd  with  a  melancholy  tinge, 

Yet  less  of  sorrow  than  of  pride  was  there. 

Or  if  'twere  grief,  a  grief  that  none  should  shave  : 


396  LARA. 

And  pleased  not  him  the  sports  that  please  his  age, 
The  tricks  of  youth,  the  frolics  of  the  page ; 
For  hours  on  Lara  he  would  fix  his  glance, 
As  all-forgotten  in  that  watchful  trance ; 
And  from  his  chief  withdrawn,  he  wander'd  lone. 
Brief  were)  his  answers,  and  his  questions  none ; 
His  walk  the  wood,  his  sport  some  foreign  book ; 
His  resting-place  the  bank  that  curbs  the  brook : 
He  seem'cl,  like  him  he  served,  to  live  apart, 
From  all  that  lures  the  eye,  and  fills  the  heart ; 
To  know  no  brotherhood,  and  take  from  earth 
No  gift  beyond  that  bitter  boon— our  birth. 

XXVII. 

If  aught  he  loved,  'twas  Lara ;  but  was  shown 

His  faith  in  reverence  and  in  deeils  alone  : 

In  mute  attention  :  and  his  care,  which  guess'd 

Each  wish,  fulfiU'd  it  ere  the  toi;gue  express'd. 

Still  there  was  haughtiness  in  all  he  did, 

A  spirit  deep  that  brook 'd  not  to  he  chid  ; 

His  zeal,  though  more  than  that  of  servile  bands, 

In  act  alone  obeys,  his  air  commands ; 

As  if  'twas  Lara's  less  than  his  desire 

That  thus  he  served,  but  surely  not  for  hire. 

Slight  were  the  tasks  enjoin'd  him  by  his  lord, 

To  hold  the  stirrup,  or  to  bear  the  sword  ; 

To  tune  his  lute,  or  if  he  wil'ld  it  more. 

On  tomes  of  other  times  and  tongues  to  pore  ; 

But  ne'er  to  mingle  with  the  menial  train. 

To  whom  he  show'd  nor  deference  nor  disdain. 

But  that  well-worn  reserve  which  proved  he  knew 

No  sympathy  with  that  familiar  crew  : 

His  soul,  whate'er  his  station  or  his  stem, 

Could  bow  to  Lara,  not  descend  to  them. 

Of  higher  birth  he  seem'd,  and  better  days, 

Nor  mark  of  vulgar  toil  that  hand  betrays  ; 

So  femininely  white  it  might  bespeak 

Another  sex,  when  match 'd  with  that  smooth  cheek, 

But  for  his  garb,  and  something  in  his  gaze. 

More  wild  and  high  than  woman's  eye  betrays ; 

A  latent  fiercenefs  that  far  more  became 

His  fiery  climate  thai?  his  tender  frame  ; 

Trtie,  ill  his  words  it  broke  not  from  his  breast, 

But  from  his  aspect  might  be  more  than  guess'd. 

Kaled  his  name,  though  rumour  said  he  bore 

Another  ere  he  left  his  mountain-shore  ; 

For  sometimes  be  would  hear,  however  nigh, 

That  name  repeated  loud  without  reply. 


> 


'  LARA.  39Pr 

As  unfamiliar,  or,  if  roused  again, 
Start  to  the  sound,  as  but  remeniber'd  then  ; 
Unless  'twas  Lara's  wonted  voice  that  sp.ike, 
For  then,  ear,  eyes,  and  heart  would  all  awake. 

xxvin. 

He  had  look'd  down  upon  the  festive  hall, 

And  niark'd  that  sudden  strife  so  marked  of  all; 

And  when  the  crowd  around  and  near  him  told 

'i'heir  wonder  at  the  calmness  of  the  bold, 

Their  marvel  how  the  high-born  Lara  bore 

Such  insult  from  a  stranger,  doubly  sore, 

The  colour  of  young  Kaled  went  and  came, 

The  lip  of  ashes,  and  the  cheek  of  flame; 

And  o'er  his  brow  the  dampening  heart-drops  threw 

The  sickening  iciness  of  that  cold  dew. 

That  rises  as  the  busy  bosom  sinks 

With  heavy  thoughts  I'roni  which  reflection  shrinks. 

Yes — there  be  things  which  we  must  dream  and  dare, 

And  execute  ere  thought  be  half  avvare  : 

Whate'er  might  Kaled's  be,  it  was  enow 

To  seal  his  lip,  but  agonise  his  brow. 

He  gazed  on  Ezzelin  till  Lara  cast 

That  sidelong  smile  upon  the  knight  he  past ; 

When  Kaled  saw  that  smile  his  visage  fell, 

As  if  on  something  recognised  right  well; 

His  memory  read  in  such  a  meaning  more 

Than  Lara's  aspect  unto  others  wore  : 

Forward  he  sprung — a  moment,  both  were  gone, 

And  all  within  that  hall  seem'd  left  alone  ; 

Each  had  so  fix'd  his  eye  on  Tiara's  mien, 

All  had  so  mix'd  their  feelings  with  that  scene. 

That  when  his  long  dark  shadow  through  the  porch 

No  more  relieves  the  glare  of  3on  high  torch. 

Each  pulse  beats  quicker,  and  all  bosoms  seem 

To  bound  as  doubting  from  too  black  a  dream. 

Such  as  we  know  is  false,  yet  dread  in  sooth. 

Because  the  worst  is  ever  nearest  truth. 

And  they  are  gone— but  Kzzelin  is  there, 

\VHh  thoughtful  visage  and  imperious  air  ; 

But  long  remain 'd  not ;  ere  an  hour  expired 

He  waved  his  hand  to  Olho,  and  retired. 

XXLX. 

The  crowd  are  gone,  the  revellers  at  rest ; 
Tile  courteous  host,  and  all-approving  guesl, 

2  L 


3M  LARA. 

Acfaiii  U)  tliiit  nccustom'd  couch  must  creep 

A\'liere  joy  subsides,  und  sorrow  sighs  to  sleej), 

And  man  o'erlaboured  with  his  being's  strife, 

Shrinks  to  that  sweet  ibrgetfuhiess  of  life: 

There  lie  love's  feverish  hope,  and  cunning's  guile, 

Hate's  working  brain,  and  luU'd  ambition's  wile  ; 

O'er  each  vain  eje  oblivion's  pinions  wave, 

jAnd  queiich'd  existence  crouches  in  a  grave. 

What  better  name  may  slumber's  bed  become  ? 

Niglit's  sepnlchre,  the  universal  home, 

M'^here  weakness,  strength,  vice,  virtue,  sunk  lupine, 

Alike  in  naked  helplessness  recline  ; 

Glad  for  a  while  to  heave  unconscious  breath, 

Yet  wake  to  wrestle  with  the  dread  of  death. 

And  shun,  though  day  but  dawn  on  ills  increast, 

That  sleep,  the  loveliest,  since  it  dreams  theJeast. 


LARA. 


CANTO  ir. 


NfGHT  wanes — the  viipours  round  the  mountuins  curl'd 

Melt  into  movn,  and  Light  awakes  the  world. 

Man  has  another  day  to  swell  the  past, 

And  lead  him  near  to  little,  hut  his  last  ; 

But  mighty  Nature  bounds  as  from  her  birth, 

The  sun  is  in  the  heavens,  and  life  on  earth  ; 

Flowers  in  the  valley,  splendour  in  the  beam, 

Health  on  the  gale,  and  freshness  in  the  stream. 

Immortal  man  !  behold  her  glories  shine, 

And  cry,  exulting  inly,  "  they  are  thine  !" 

(iaze  on,  white  yet  the  gladden'd  eye  may  see  ; 

A  morrow  comes  wiien  they  are  not  for  lliee  : 

And  grieve  what  may  above  thy  senseless  bier. 

Nor  earth  nor  sky  will  yield,  a  single  tear  ; 

Nor  cloud  shall  gather  more,  nor  leaf  shall  fall, 

Nor  gale  breathe  forth  one  sigh  for  thee,  I'or  all  ; 

But  creeping  things  shall  revel  in  their  spoil, 

And  fit  thy  clay  to  fertilize  the  soil. 

II. 

'Tis  morn— 'tis  noon — assembled  in  Ihc  hall, 
The  gather'd  chieftains  come  to  Otho's  call  ; 
'Tis  now  the  promised  hour,  thut  must  proclaim 
The  life  or  dcalli  of  Lara's  fuliirc  fame  ; 
Wlien  Ezzelln  his  cliarge  may  lifre  uiiluM, 
Anil  whatsoe'er  the  tale,  it  must  be  told. 
His  faith  was  pledged,  and  Lara's  promise  given, 
To  meet  it  in  the  eye  of  man  and  heaven. 


400  LARA. 

Wliy  comes  he  not  ?  Such  truths  to  be  divulged, 
Methiiiks  the  iiccusei's  rest  is  long  indulged. 

III. 

The  hour  is  p.nst,  and  Lara  too  is  there, 
Wilhself-coiifidine:,  coUlly  patient  air  ; 
AVhy  conies  not  Ez/.eliii  ?  'I'he  liour  is  past, 
And  niiirmiirs  rise,  and  Olho's  brow's  o'ercast. 
"  J  know  my  friend  1  his  I'aith  I  cannot  tear, 
"  II  yet  lie  be  on  earth,  expect  him  here  ; 
"  The  rool'  that  held  him  in  the  valley  stands 
"  Between  my  own  and  noble  Lara's  lands  ; 
"  My  halls  I'rom  such  a  guest  had  honour  gain'd, 
"Nor  has  Sir  Ezzelin  his  host  disdain'd, 
"  But  that  some  previous  proof  forbade  him"" stay, 
•'And  urged  him  to  prepare  against  to-day  ; 
"  The  word  I  pledged  for  his  I  pledge  again, 
"  Or  will  myself  redeem  his  knighthood's  stain." 

He  ceased— and  Lara  answer'd,  "  I  am  here 

"  To  lend  at  thy  demand  a  listening  ear  ; 

"  To  tales  of  evil  from  a  stranger's  tongue, 

"  Whose  words  already  might  my  heart  have  wrung, 

"  But  that  I  deem'd  him  scarcely  less  than  mad, 

"  Or,  at  the  worst,  a  foe  ignobly  bad. 

"  I  know  him  not — but  me  it  seems  he  knew 

"  In  lands  where— but  I  must  not  trifle  too  : 

"  Produce  this  babbler — or  redeem  the  pledge  ; 

"  Here  in  thy  hold,  and  with  thy  lalchion's  edge."' 

Proud  Otho  on  the  instant,  reddening,  threw 
His  glove  on  earth,  and  forth  his  sabre  flew. 
"  The  last  alternative  befits  me  best, 
"  And  thus  I  answer  for  mine  absent  guest." 

With  cheek  unchanging  from  its  sallow  gloom, 
However  near  his  own  or  other's  tomb  ; 
With  hand,  whose  almost  careless  coolness  spoke 
Its  grasp  well-used  to  deal  the  sabre-stroke  ; 
With  eye,  though  calm,  determined  not  to  spare, 
Did  Lara  too  his  willing  weapon  bare. 
In  vain  the  circling  chieftains  roinid  them  closed, 
I'or  Otlio's  jilirensy  would  not  be  opposed  ; 
And  from  his  lip  those  words  of  insult  fell — 
His  sworil  is  good  who  can  maintain  them  well. 


LARA.  -lOl 


IV. 


Short  was  the  conflict ;  furious,  blindly  rash, 
Vain  Otho  gave  liis  bosom  to  the  gash  : 
He  bled,  and  fell  ;  but  not  witli  deadly  wound, 
Stretcb'd  by  a  dextrous  sleigiit  along  the  ground. 
"  Demand  thy  life  !"     He  answer'd  not :  and  tbea 
From  that  red  floor  he  ne'er  had  risen  again. 
For  Lara's  brow  upon  the  moment  grew 
Almost  to  blackness  in  its  demon  hue  ; 
And  liercer  shook  his  angry  lalchion  now 
Than  wlien  iiis  foe's  was  levell'd  at  his  brow  ; 
Then  all  was  stern  collectedness  and  art, 
Now  rose  the  unleaven'd  hatred  of  his  heart ; 
So  little  sparing  to  the  foe  he  lell'd. 
That  when  the  approaching  crowd  his  arm  withheld, . 
He  almost  turn'd  the  thirsty  point  on  those. 
Who  thus  for  mercy  dared  to  interpose  ; 
But  to  a  moment's  thought  thiit  purpose  bent  ; 
Yet  look'd  he  on  him  still  with  eye  intent, 
As  if  he  loathed  the  inellectuai  strife 
That  left  H  foe,  howe'er  o'erthrown,  with  life  ; 
As  if  to  search  how  far  the  wound  he  gave 
Had  sent  its  victim  onward  to  his  grave. 

V. 

They  raised  the  bleeding  Otho  and  the  Leech 
Forbade  all  present  question,  sign,  and  speech  ; 
The  others  met  within  a  neighbouring  hall. 
And  he,  incensed  and  heedless  oi  them  all, 
The  cause  and  conqueror  in  this  sudden  (my, 
In  haughty  silence  slowly  strode  away  ; 
He  back'd  his  steed,  his  homeward  path  he  took,. 
Nor  cast  on  Otho's  towers  a  single  look. 

VL 

But  where  was  he  ?  that  meteor  of  a  night 
Who  menaced  but  to  disappear  wilii  light  ? 
Where  was  this  Ezzelin  ?  who  came  and  went] 
To  leave  no  other  trace  of  his  intent. 
He  left  the  dome  of  Otho  long  ere  morn. 
In  darkness,  yet  so  well  the  path  was  worn 
He  could  not  miss  it:  near  iiis  dwelling  lay  ; 
But  there  he  was  not,  and  with  coming  day 
Came  fast  inquiry,  which  unfohled  nought 
Except  the  absence  of  the  chief  it  souglit. 

2  L  -2 


402  LARA. 

A  chamber  leiianlless,  a  steed  af  rest, 
His  liosl  alarm'd,  his  rmirmiivint;-  squires  distrest  : 
Their  search  extends  along,  around  the  path, 
In  dread  to  meet  the  marks  of  jjrowlers'  wrath  : 
But  none  are  there,  and  not  a  hrai<e  hatli  borne, 
Nor  gout  ol'  blood,  nor  shred  of  mantle  torn  ; 
Nor  fall  nor  struggle  hath  defaced  the  grass, 
Which  still  retains  a  mark  where  murder  was; 
Nor  dabhling  fingers  left  to  tell  the  tale. 
The  hitler  print  of  each  convulsive  nail, 
When  agonised  hantis  that  cease  to  guard, 
AVound  in  that  pang  the  smoothness  of  the  sward. 
Some  such  had  been,  if  here  a  life  was  reft. 
But  these  were  not ;  and  doubting  hope  is  left  ; 
And  strange  suspicion,  whi-pering  Lara's  uame, 
Now  daily  mutters  o'er  his  hiacken'd  fame; 
Then  sudden  silent  when  Jiis  form  ajjpear'd, 
Awaits  the  absence  of  the  thing  it  fearM 
A&'ain  its  wonted  wondering  to  renew. 
And  dye  conjecture  with  a  darker  hue. 

VIL 

Days  roll  along,  and  Otho's  wounds  are  heal'd. 

But  not  his  pride  ;  and  hate  no  more  conceai'd  : 

He  was  a  man  of  pow"r,  and  Lara's  foe, 

The  friend  of  all  who  sought  to  work  him  woe, 

And  from  his  country's  justice  now  demands 

Account  of  Ezzelin  at  Lara's  hands. 

Who  else  than  Lara  could  have  cause  to  fear 

His  i)resence  ?  who  had  made  him  disappear. 

If  not  the  man  on  whom  his  menanced  charge 

Had  sate  too  deeply  were  he  left  at  large  ? 

The  general  rumour  ignonintly  loud, 

Tiie  mystery  ileaiest  to  the  curious  crowd ; 

Tne  seeming  friendlessness  of  him  who  strove 

To  win  no  confidence,  and  wake  no  love  ; 

The  sweeiung  fierceness  which  his  soul  betray'd, 

Ti;e  skill  with  which  he  wielded  his  keen  blade. 

Where  had  his  arm  unwarlike  caught  the  art  ? 

Where  had  that  fierceness  si^rown  upon  his  heart  ? 

For  it  was  not  the  blind  capricious  rage 

A  word  can  kindle  and  a  word  assuage  ; 

But  the  deep  working  of  a  soul  unmix'd 

Widi  auijjit  of  pity  where  its  wrath  had  fix'd  ; 

S\i!h  as  long  power  and  overgorjred  success 

Coiicentiates  into  all  that's  merciless  : 

These,  link'd  wilh  that  desire  which  ever  sways 

Mankind,  the  rather  to  condemn  than  praise. 


LAllA.  <('3 

'"Gaii'ist  Lara  g-alhevinc:  raised  at  length  a  storm, 
Such  as  liimsell  might  I'ear,  and  loes  would  iorni, 
And  he  must  answer  lor  the  absent  head 
Of  one  that  haunts  him  still,  alive  or  dead. 

viir. 

M'ithin  tliat  land  was  manj-  a  mah'ontent, 

Who  cur>ed  the  lyrarniy  to  whieli  he  bent: 

That  soil  lull  many  a  wringing-  despot  saw, 

^^'llo  worked  his  wantonness  in  form  of  law  ; 

Lor.g  war  without  and  frequent  broil  within 

Had  made  a  imlh  for  blood  and  giant  sin, 

That  waited  but  a  signal  to  begin 

New  havock,  such  as  civil  discord  blends, 

Which  knows  no  neuter,  owns  but  foes  or  friends  ; 

Fix'd  in  his  feudal  fortress  each  was  lord, 

In  word  and  tieed  obey'il,  in  soul  abhorr'd. 

Tiius  Lara  had  inherited  his  lands. 

And  with  them  pining  hearts  and  sluggish  hands  ; 

But  that  long  absence  from  his  native  clime 

Had  left  him  stainless  of  oppression's  crime. 

Anil  now  diverted  by  his  milder  sway 

All  dread  by  slow  degrees  had  worn  away. 

The  menials  felt  their  usual  awe  alone, 

But  more  for  him  than  ihem  that  fear  was  grown  ; 

They  deem'd  him  how  unhappy,  though  at  first 

Their  evil  judgment  augur'd  of  the  worst, 

And  each  long  restless  night,  and  silent  mood, 

Was  traced  to  sickness,  fed  by  solitude  : 

And  though  his  lonely  habits  threw  of  late 

Gloom  o'er  his  chamber,  cheerful  was  his  gate  ; 

Tor  thence  the  wretched  Jie'er  misoothed  withdrew, 

For  them,  at  least,  his  soul  compassion  knew. 

Cold  to  the  great,  contemptuous  to  the  high. 

The  humble  pass'd  not  his  unheeding  eye  ; 

Much  he  would  speak  not,  but  beneath   his  roof 

They  found  asylum  oft,  and  ne'er  reproof. 

And  they  who  watch 'il  might  mark  that  day  by  day, 

Some  new  retainers  gather'd  to  his  sway  ; 

JJut  most  of  late,  since  Kzzelin  was  lost. 

He  play'd  the  conrteou'  lord  and  bounteous  host  : 

Perchance  his  strife  with  Otho  made  him  dread 

Some  snare  preinired  for  bis  obnoxious  head  ; 

Whate'cr  his  view,  his  favour  more  obtains 

With  these,  the  people,  than  his  fellow  Ihancs, 

If  this  were  policy,  so  far  'twas  sound. 

The  million  judged  but  of  him  as  they  found ; 


404  LARA. 

From  bim  by  sterner  chiefs  to  exile  driven 
They  !)ut  re(iuireil  n  shelter,  ami  'twas  given. 
By  bim  no  peasant  mourned  his  rifled  cot, 
And  scarce  the  Serl'  could  murmur  o'er  his  lot ; 
With  him  old  avarice  found  its  hoard  secure, 
^Vith  liim  contempt  forbore  to  mock  the  poor  ; 
Youth  present  cheer  and  promised  recompense 
Detaiii'd,  till  all  too  late  to  part  from  thence  : 
To  hate  he  offer'd,  with  the  coming  change, 
'I'he  deep  reversion  of  delay'd  revenge  ; 
To  love,   long  baffled  by  the  unequal  match. 
The  vvell-uon  charms  success  was  sure  to  snatch. 
All  now  was  ripe,  he  waits  but  1o  proclaim 
That  slavery  nothing  which  was  still  a  name. 
The  moment  came,  the  hour  when  Otho  thought 
Secure  at  last  the  vengeance  which  he  sought : 
His  summons  found  the  destined  criminal 
Begirt  by  thousands  in  his  swarming  hall, 
Fresh  from  their  feudal  fetters  newly  riven 
Defying  earth,  and  confident  of  heaven. 
That  morning  he  had  freed  the  soil-bound  slaves 
Wh(j  dig  no  land  for  tyrants  but  their  graves  ! 
Such  is  their  cry -some  watchword  for  the  light 
Must  vindicate  the  wrong,  and  warp  the  right : 
Religion— freedom — vengeance— what  30U  will, 
A  word's  enough  to  raise  mankind  to  kill ; 
Some  factious  phrase  by  cunning  caught  and  spread, 
That  guilt  may  reign,  and  wolves  and  worms  be  fed  ! 

IX. 

Throughout  that  clime  the  feudal  chiefs  had  gain'd 
Such  sway  their  infant  monarch  hardly  reign 'd; 
Now  was  the  hour  for  faction's  rebel  growth. 
The  Serfs  contemn'tl  the  one,  and  hated  both  : 
They  wailed  but  a  leader,  and  they  found 
One  to  their  cause  inseparably  bound  ; 
By  circumstance  compell'd  to  plunge  again, 
In  self-defence  amidst  the  strife  of  men. 
Cut  oft"  by  some  mysterious  fate  from  those 
Whom  birth  and  nature  meant  not  for  his  foes. 
Had  Lara  from  that  night,  to  him  accurst, 
Prepared  to  meet,  but  not  alone  the  worst : 
Some  reason  urged,  whate'er  it  was,  to  shun 
Inijuiry  into  deeds  at  distance  done  ; 
By  mingling  with  his  own  the  cause  of  all, 
&iin  if  he  fail'd,  he  still  delay'd  his  faU. 


'  LARA.'  m 

The  sullen  calm  thai  loncf  his  bosom  kept, 
The  storm  that  once  had  spent  itself  and  slept, 
Roused  by  events  that  seem'd  loredoom'd  to  urge 
His  tcloomy  fortunes  to  their  utmost  verge, 
Burst  fortti,  and  made  him  all  he  once  had  been, 
And  is  again,  he  only  changed  the  scene. 
Light  care  had  he  for  life,  and  less  for  fame, 
But  not  loss  lilted  for  the  desperate  game  : 
He  deem'il  liimself  mark'd  out  for  others'  bate, 
And  mock'd  at  ruin  so  they  shared  his  fate. 
What  cared  he  for  the  freedom  of  the  crowd  ? 
He  raised  the  humble  but  to  bend  the  proud. 
He  had  hoped  quiet  in  his  sullen  lair, 
T^ut  man  and  destiny  beset  him  there  : 
Inured  to  hunters,  he  was  found  at  bay; 
And  they  must  kill,  they  cannot  snare  the  prey. 
Stern,  unambitious,  silent,  he  had  been 
Henceforth  a  calm  spectator  of  life's  scene; 
But  dragg'd  again  upon  the  arena,  stood 
A  leader  not  unequal  to  the  feud  ; 
In  voice — mien — gesture— savaiic  nature  spoke. 
And  from  his  eye  the  gladiator  broke. 

X. 

What  boots  the  oft  repeated  tale  of  strife. 

The  feast  of  vultures,  and  the  waste  of  life  ? 

The  varying  fortune  of  each  separate  field, 

The  fierce  that  vanquish,  and  the  faint  that  yield  ? 

The  smoking  ruin,  and  tlie  crumbled  wall  ? 

In  this  the  struggle  was  the  same  with  all  : 

Save  that  distemper'd  passions  lent  their  force 

In  bitterness  that  banish'd  all  remorse. 

None  sued,  for  Mercy  knew  her  cry  was  vain, 

The  captive  died  upon  the  battle-slain  : 

In  either  cause,  one  rage  alone  possest  , 

The  empire  of  the  alternate  victor's  breast. 

Ami  the}  tiial  smote  for  freedom  or  for  swa}', 

Deem'd  few  were  slain,  while  more  remain'd  to  slay. 

It  was  too  late  to  check  the  wasting  brand, 

And  Desolation  reap'd  tiie  faniisli'd  land  ; 

The  torch  was  lighted,  and  tlie  flame  was  spread. 

And  Carnage  smil'd  upon  her  daily  dead. 

XI. 

Fresh  with  the  nerve  the  new-born  impulse  strung, 
The  first  success  to  Lara's  nuniliers  clung  : 
But  that  vain  victory  hatii  ruin'd  all, 
They  form  no  longer  to  their  leader's  cull ; 


406  LARA. 

In  blind  cotifiision  on  the  foe  the)'  presc, 

Anil  think  to  snatch  is  to  secure  success. 

The  lust  of  booty,  and  the  thirst  ol'  hate, 

Lure  on  the  broken  brigands  to  their  fate  : 

In  vain  he  doth  whate'er  a  chief  may  do, 

To  check  the  headlong  fury  of  that  crew  ; 

In  vain  their  stubborn  ardour  he  would  tame, 

The  hand  that  kindles  cannot  quench  the  flame  ; 

The  wary  foe  alone  hath  turned  their  mood, 

And  shown  their  rashness  to  that  erring  brood  : 

The  feign'd  retreat,  the  nightly  ambuscade, 

The  daily  harrass,  and  the  fight  delay'd, 

The  long  privation  of  the  hoped  supply, 

The  tentless  rest  beneath  the  humid  sky, 

The  stubborn  wall  that  mocks  the  leaguer'ji  art, 

And  palls  the  patience  of  his  baffled  heart, 

Of  these  they  had  not  deem'd :  the  battle-day 

They  could  encounter  as  a  veteran  may  : 

But  more  preferred  the  fury  of  the  strife. 

And  present  death,  to  hourly  suffering  life  : 

And  famine  wrings,  and  fever  sweeps  away 

His  numbers  melting  fast  from  their  array  ; 

Intemperate  triumph  fades  to  discontent. 

And  Lara's  soul  alone  seems  still  unbent : 

But  few  remain  to  aid  his  voice  and  hand, 

And  thousands  dwindled  to  a  scanty  band  r 

Desperate,  though  few,  the  last  and  best  remain'd 

To  mourn  the  discipline  they  late  disdain'd. 

One  hope  survives,  the  frontier  is  not  far. 

And  thence  they  may  escape  from  native  war ; 

And  bear  within  them  to  the  neighbouring  state 

An  exile's  sorrows,  or  an  outlaw's  hate  : 

Hard  is  the  task  their  father-land  to  quit, 

But  harder  still  to  perish  or  submit. 

XIL 

It  is  resolved — they  march— consenting  Night 
Guides  with  her  star  their  dim  and  torchless  flight ; 
Already  they  perceive  its  tranquil  beam 
Sleep  on  the  surface  of  the  barrier  stream ; 
Already  they  descry— is  j-on  the  bank? 
Away  !    'tis  lined  with  many  a  hostile  rank. 
Return  or  fly  I — what  glitters  in  the  rear  ? 
'Tis  Olho's  banner- tfie  pursuer's  spear! 
Are  those  the  shepherds'  fires  upon  the  height  ? 
Alas  !  they  blaze  too  widely  for  the  flight ; 
Cut  off"  from  hope,  and  compass'd  in  the  toil. 
Less  blood  percliance  hath  bought  a  richer  spoil ! 


LARA.  407 


XIII. 


A  moment's  pause — 'tis  but  to  breathe  their  band 
Or  shall  they  onward  press,  or  here  withstand  ? 
It  matters  little — if  they  charge  the  foes 
Who  by  their  border-stream  their  march  oppose, 
Some  few,  perchance,  may  break  and  pass  the  line. 
However  link'd  to  baffle  such  design. 
"  The  charge  be  ours  !    to  wait  for  their  assault 
"  Were  fate  well  worthy  of  a  coward's  halt." 
Forth  flies  each  sabre,  reined  is  every  steed. 
And  the  next  word  shall  scarce  outstrip  the  deed  : 
In  the  next  tone  of  Lara's  gathering  breath 
How  many  shall  but  hear  the  voice  of  death  ! 
His  blade  is  bared,  in  him  there  is  an  air 
As  deep,  but  far  too  tranquil  for  despair  ; 
A  something  of  indifference  more  than  then 
Becomes  the  bravest,  if  they  feel  for  men — 
He  turned  his  eye  on  Kaled,  ever  near, 
And  still  too  faithful  to  betray  ona  fear  ; 
Perchance  'twas  but  the  moon's  dim  twilight  threw 
Along  his  aspect  an  unwonted  hue 
Of  mournful  paleness,  whose  deep  tint  exprest 
The  truth,  and  not  the  terror  of  his  breast 
This  Lara  mark'd,  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  : 
It  trembled  not  in  such  an  hour  as  this  ; 
His  lip  was  silent,  scarcely  beat  his  heart, 
His  eye  alone  proclaimed,  "  We  will  not  part ! 
"  Thy  band  may  perish,  or  thy  friends  may  flee, 
"  Farewell  to  life,  but  not  adieu  to  thee  I" 

The  word  hath  pass'd  his  lips,  and  onward  driven, 
Pours  the  link'd  band  through  ranks  asunder  riven  ; 
Well  hath  each  steed  obey'd  the  arm'd  heel. 
And  flash  the  scimitars,  and  rings  the  steel ; 
Outnumber'd  not  outbraved,  they  still  oppose 
Despair  to  braving,  and  a  front  to  foes ; 
And  blood  is  mingled  with  the  dashing  stream. 
Which  runs  all  redly  till  the  morning  beam. 

XV. 

Commanding,  aiding,  animating  all, 
Where  foe  appear'd  to  press,  or  friend  1o  fall, 
Cheers  Lara's  voice,  and  waves  or  strikes  hik  aiwi, 
Inspiring  hope  himself  had  ceased  to  feel. 


40»  LARA. 


None  fled,  for  well  Hun  knew  that  flight  were  vain  j 
]Jut  those  that  wander  turn  to  smite  again, 
A\'hile  yet  ihey  find  the  firmest  of  tlie  foe 
Recoil  before  tlieir  leader's  look  and  blow : 
Now  girt  with  numbers,  now  almost  alone, 
lie  foils  their  ranks,  or  reunites  his  own  ; 
Himself  he  spared  not — once  they  seem'd  to  fly — 
Now  was  tiie  time  he  Waved  his  iiand  on  liiijli, 
And  shook-^W'hy  sudden  drooi)s  that  plumed  crest  ? 
'I'he  shaft  is  sped — the  arrow  's  in  his   breast  I 
That  fatal  i^eslure  left  the  uni^uarded  side, 
And  Dea'li  haiii  stricken  down  yon  arm  of  pride. 
The  word  uf  triumph  fainted  from  his  tono-ue ; 
That  hand,  so  raised,  bow  droopiiiffly  it  Imng  ! 
Uut  yet  tlie  sword  inslinotivelv  retains, 
Though  from  ils  fellow  shrink  the  falling  reins  ; 
These  Kaled  snatches :  dizzy  with  the  blow, 
And  senseless  bending  o'er  his  saddle  bow. 
Perceives  not  Lara  that  his  anxious  page 
Beguiles  bis  charger  i'rom  the  combat's  rage  : 
Meantime  his  followers  charge,  and  charge  again  ; 
Too  mix'd  the  slayers  now  to  heed  the  slain  ! 

XVI. 

Day  glimmers  on  the  dying  and  the  dead, 

The  cloven  cuirass,  and  the  helmless  head  ; 

The  war-horse  masterless  is  on  the  earth. 

And  that  last  gasp  hath  burst  his  bloody  girth  ; 

And  near  yet  quivering  with  what  life  remain'd. 

The  heel  that  urged  him  and  the  hand  that  rein'd  ; 

And  some  too  near  that  rolling  torrent  lie, 

Whose  waters  mock  the  lip  of  those  that  die  ; 

That  panting  thirst  which  scorches  in  the  breath. 

Of  those  that  die  the  soldier's  fiery  death. 

In  vain   impels  the  burning  mouth  to  crave 

One  drop — the  last — to  cool  it  i'or  the  grave  ; 

With  feeble  and  convulsive  effort  swept. 

Their  limbs  along  the  crinison'd  turf  have  crept; 

The  fahit  remains  of  life  such  struggles  wiL«te, 

But  yet  they  reach  the  stream,  and  bend  to  taste : 

They  leel  its  I'reshnes,  and  almost  partake— 

^V'■hy  pause  ?  No  further  thirst  have  they  to  slake-  - 

It  is  uniiuench'd,  and  jet  they  feel  it  not; 

It  was  an  agony— but  now  forgot ! 


,  LARA.  409 


xvrr. 


Beneath  a  lime,  remoter  from  the  scene, 

Where  but  for  him  that  strife  had  never  been, 

A  breathing  but  devoted  warrior  lay  : 

'Twas  Lara  bleeding  fast  from  life  away, 

His  follower  once,  and  now  his  only  guide, 

Kneels  Kaled  watchful  o'er  his  welling  side, 

And  with  his  scarf  would  staunch  the  tides  that  rush, 

With  each  convulsion,  in  a  blacker  gush  ; 

And  then,  as  his  faint  breathing  waxes  low, 

In  feebler,  not  less  fatal  tricklings  flow  : 

He  scarce  can  speak,  but  motions  him  His  vain. 

And  merely  adds  another  throb  to  pain. 

He  clasps  the  hand  that  pang  which  would  assuage. 

And  sadly  smiles  his  thanks  to  that  dark  page, 

Who  nothing  fears,  nor  feels,  nor  heeds,  nor  sees, 

Save  that  damp  brow  which  rests  upon  his  knees ; 

Save  that  pale  aspect,  where  the  eye,  though  dim, 

Held  all  the  light  that  shone  on  earth  for  him. 

The  foe  arrives,  who  long  had  searched  the  field, 

Their  triumph  nought  till  Lara  too  should  yield  ; 

They  would  remove  him,  but  they  see  'twere  vain, 

And  he  regards  them  with  a  calm  disdain. 

That  rose  to  reconcile  him  with  his  fate. 

And  that  escape  to  death  from  living  hate  : 

And  Otho  comes,  and  leaping  from  his  steed, 

Looks  on  the  bleeding  foe  that  made  him  bleed, 

And  questions  of  his  state ;  he  answers  not, 

Scarce  glances  on  him  as  on  one  forgot, 

And  turns  to  Kaled  :— each  remaining  word, 

They  understood  not,  if  distinctly  heard  ; 

His  dying  tones  are  in  that  other  tongue, 

To  which  some  strange  remembrance  wildly  clung 

They  spake  of  other  scenes,  but  what— is  known 

To  Kaleil,  whom  their  meaning  reach'd  alone, 

And  he  replied,  though  faintlj-,   to  their  sound, 

While  gazed  the  rest  in  dundi  amazement  round  : 

They  seem'd  even  then — that  twain — unto  the  last 

To  half  forget  the  present  in  the  past ; 

To  share  between  themselves  some  separate  fate. 

Whose  darkness  none  beside  should  penetrate. 

XIX. 

Their  words  though  faint  were  many— from  tlie  tone 
Their  import  those  who  heard  could  judge  alone; 

2  M 


410  LARA. 

From  this,  you  might  have  deem'd  young  Kaled's  deal'a 
More  near  than  Lara's  by  his  voice  and  breath, 
So  sad,  so  deej),  and  hesitating  broke 
The  accents  his  scarce-moving  pale  lips  spoke ; 
But  Lara's  voice  though  low,  at  first  vras  clear 
And  calm,  till  murmuring  death  gasp'd  hoarsely  near  : 
But  from  his  visage  little  could  we  guess. 
So  unrepentant,  dark,  and  passionless. 
Save  that  when  struggling  nearer  to  his  last. 
Upon  that  page  his  eye  was  kindly  cast ; 
And  once  as  Kaled's  answering  accents  ceast, 
Rose  Lara's  hand,  and  pointed  to  the  East : 
Whether  (ys  then  the  breaking  sun  from  high 
Roll'd  back  the  clouds)  the  morrow  caught  his  eye. 
Or  that  'twas  chance,  or  some  remember'd  scene 
That  raised  his  arm  to  point  where  such  Tiad  been. 
Scarce  Kaled  seem'd  to  know,  but  turn'd  away, 
As  if  his  heart  abhorr'd  that  coming  day. 
And  shrunk  his  glance  before  that  morning  light, 
To  look  on  Lara's  brow  -  where  all  grew  night. 
Yet  sense  seem'd  left,  though  better  were  its  loss  ; 
For  when  one  near  display'd  the  absolving  cross. 
And  pi'ofier'd  to  his  touch  the  holy  bead. 
Of  which  his  parting  soul  might  own  the  need. 
He  look'd  upon  it  with  an  eye  profane, 
'     And  smiled — Heaven  pardon  !   if  'twere  with  disdain  : 
And  Kaled,  though  he  spoke  not,  nor  withdrew 
From  Lara's  face  his  fix'd  despairing  view, 
With  brow  repulsive,  and  with  gesture  swift. 
Flung  back  the  hand  which  held  the  sacred  gift. 
As  if  such  but  disturb'd  the  expiring  man. 
Nor  seem'd  to  know  his  life  but  then  began. 
That  life  of  Immortality,  secure 
To  none,  save  them  whose  faith  in  Christ  is  sure. 

XX. 

But  gasping  heaved  the  breath  that  Lara  drew, 

And  dull  the  film  along  his  dim  eye  grew. 

His  limbs  strelch'd  fluttering,  and  his  head  droop'd  o'er 

The  weak  yet  slill  untiring  knee  that  bore  ; 

He  press'd  the  hand  he  held  upon  his  heart — 

It  beats  no  more,  but  Kaled  will  not  part 

With  the  colli  grasp,  hut  feels,  and  feels  in  vain. 

For  that  faint  tliroh  which  answers  not  again. 

"  It  beats  !" — Away,  thou  dreamer  !  he  is  gone — 

It  once  was  Lara  which  thou  look'st  upon. 

/ 


LARA.  411 


XXI. 


He  gazed,  as  if  not  yet  had  pass'd  away 
The  haughty  spirit  of  that  humble  clay  ; 
And  those  around  have  roused  him  from  his  trance, 
But  cannot  tear  from  thence  his  fixed  glance  ; 
And  when  in  raising  him  from  where  he  bore 
Within  his  arms  the  form  that  felt  no  more, 
He  saw  the  head  his  breast  would  still  sustain. 
Roll  down  like  earth  to  earth  upon  the  plain  ; 
He  did  not  dash  himself  thereby,  nor  tear 
The  glossy  tendrils  of  his  raven  hair, 
But  strove  to  stand  and  gaze,  but  reel'd  and  fell, 
Scarce  breathing  more  than  that  he  loved  so  well. 
Than  that  he  loved  !    Oh  !  never  yet  beneath 
The  breast  of  man  such  trusty  love  may  breathe  ! 
That  trying  moment  hath  at  once  reveal 'd 
The  secret  long  and  yet  but  half  conceal'd  ; 
In  baring  to  revive  that  lifeless  breast, 
Its  grief  seem'd  ended,  but  the  sex  confest ; 
And  life  return'd,  and  Kaled  felt  no  shame — 
"What  now  to  her  wa»^VVoraanhood  or  Fame  ? 

XXII. 

And  Lara  sleeps  not  where  his  fathers  sleep, 

But  where  he  died  his  grave  was  dug  as  deep  ; 

Nor  is  his  mortal  slumber  less  profound, 

Though  priest  nor  bless'd,  nor  marble  deck'd  the  mound ; 

And  he  was  mouru'd  by  one  whose  quiet  grief, 

Less  loud  outlasts  a  people's  for  their  chief. 

Vain  was  all  question  askM  her  of  the  past. 

And  vain  e'en  menace — silent  to  the  last  ; 

She  told  nor  whence,  nor  why  she  left  behind 

Her  all  for  one  who  seem'd  but  little  kind. 

Why  did  she  love  him  ?    Curious  fool  ! — be  still — 

Is  human  love  the  growth  of  human  will  ? 

To  her  he  might  be  gentleness  ;  the  stern 

Have  deeper  thoughts  than  your  dull  eyes  discern  ; 

And  when  they  love,  your  smilers  guess  not  how 

Beats  the  strong  heart,  though  less  the  lips  avow. 

They  were  not  common  links  that  form'd  the  chain 

That  bound  to  Lara  Kaled's  heart  and  brain  ; 

But  that  wild  tale  she  brook'd  not  to  unfold, 

Aad  seal'd  is  now  eac  h  lip  that  could  have  told. 


LARA. 


.YXIII. 


They  laid  him  in  the  earth,  and  on  his  breast, 
Besides  the  wound  that  sent  his  soul  to  rest. 
The)'  found  the  scatter'd  dints  of  many  a  scar, 
Which  were  not  planted  there  in  recent  war  : 
^Vhere'er  had  pass'd  his  summer  years  of  life, 
It  seems  they  vanished  in  a  land  of  strife  ; 
Uiit  all  unknown  his  glory  or  his  guilt. 
These  only  told  that  somewhere  blood  was  spilt. 
And  Ezzelin,  who  might  have  spoke  the  past. 
Return 'd  no  more— that  night  appear'd  his  last. 

XXIV. 

Upon  that  night  (a  peasant's  is  the  tale) 

A  Serf  that  cross'd  the  intervening  vale. 

When  Cynthia's  light  almost  gave  way  to  morn, 

And  nearly  veiPd  in  mist  her  waning  Jjorn  ; 

A  Serf,  that  rose  betimes  to  tread  the  wood. 

And  hew  the  bough  that  bought  his  children's  food, 

PassM  by  the  river  that  dvides  the  plain 

Of  Otho's  lands  and  Lara's  broad  domain  : 

He  heard  a  tramp — a  horse  and  horseman  broke 

From  out  the  wood — before  him  was  a  cloak 

Wrapt  round  some  burthen  at  his  saddle-bow. 

Bent  was  his  head,  and  hidden  was  his  brow. 

Roused  by  the  sudden  sight  at  such  a  time. 

And  some  foreboding  that  it  might  be  crime,    ■ 

Himself  unheeded  watchM  the  stranger's  course, 

Who  reach'd  the  river,  bounded  from  his  horse. 

And  lifting  thence  the  burthen  which  he  bore. 

Heaved  up  the  bank,  and  dash'd  it  from  the  shore, 

Then  paus'd,  and  look'd,  and  tuin'd,  and  seem'd  to  watch. 

And  still  another  hurried  glance  would  snatch, 

And  follow  with  his  step  the  stream  that  flow'd. 

As  if  even  yet  too  much  its  surface  show'd  : 

At  once  he  started,  stoop'd,  around  him  strown 

The  winter  floods  had  scatter'd  heaps  of  stone  ; 

Of  these  the  heaviest  thence  he  gather'd  there. 

And  slung  them  with  a  more  than  common  care. 

Meantime  the  Serf  had  crept  to  where  unseen 

Himself  might  safely  mark  what  this  might  mean  ; 

He  caught  a  glimpse,  as  of  a  lloating  breast, 

And  something  glitter'd  starlike  on  the  vest, 

But  ere  lie  well  could  mark  the  buoyant  trunk, 

A  massy  fragment  sraote  it,  and  it  sunk  : 


'  LARA.  413 

It  rose  again  but  indistinct  to  view, 

And  left  the  water  of  a  purple  hue, 

Then  deeply  disappear'd  :  the  horseman  gazed 

Till  ebb'd  the  latest  eddy  it  had  raised ; 

Then  turning,  vaulted  on  his  pawing  steed,  "      ; 

And  instant  spurr'd  him  into  panting  speed. 

His  face  was  mask'd — the  features  of  the  dead, 

If  dead  it  were,  escaped  the  observer's  dread, 

But  if  in  sooth  a  star  its  bosom  bore, 

Such  is  the  badge  that  knighthood  ever  wore. 

And  such  His  known  Sir  Ezzelin  had  worn 

Upon  the  night  that  led  to  such  a  morn. 

If  thus  he  perish'd,  Heaven  receive  his  soul ! 

His  undiscover'd  limbs  to  ocean  roll ; 

And  charity  upon  the  hope  would  dwell 

It  was  not  Lara's  hand  by  which  he  fell. 

XXV. 

And  Kaled  -Lara— Ezzelin — are  gone, 
Alike  without  their  monumental  stone  ! 
The  first,  all  efforts  vainly  strove  to  wean 
From  lingering  where  her  chieftain's  blood  had  been  ; 
Grief  had  so  tamed  a  spirit  once  too  proud, 
Her  tears  were  few,  her  wailing  never  loud  ; 
But  furious  would  you  tear  from  the  spot 
Where  yet  she  scarce  believed  that  he  was  not. 
Her  eye  shot  forth  with  all  the  living  fire 
That  haunts  the  tigress  in  her  whelpless  ire ; 
But  left  to  waste  her  weary  moments  there. 
She  talk'd  all  idly  unto  shapes  of  air, 
Such  as  the  busy  brain  of  Sorrow  paints, 
And  woos  to  listen  to  her  fond  complaints  : 
And  she  would  sit  beneath  the  very  tree 
Where  lay  his  drooping  head  upon  her  knee, 
And  in  that  posture  wtiere  she  saw  him  fall, 
His  words,  his  looks,  his  dying  grasp  recall ; 
Add  she  had  shorn,  but  saved  her  raven  hair. 
And  oft  would  snatch  it  from  her  bosom  there. 
And  fold,  and  press  it  gently  to  the  ground. 
As  if  she  staunch'd  anew  some  phantom's  wound. 
Herself  would  question,  and  for  him  reply  ; 
Then  rising,  start,  and  beckon  him  to  fly 
From  some  imagined  spectre  in  pursuit ; 
Then  seat  lu-r  down  u|)on  some  linden's  root. 
And  hide  her  visage  with  her  meagre  hand. 
Or  trace  strange  characters  along  the  sand — 
This  could  nol  last— she  lies  by  liim  she  loved  ; 
Her  tale  untold — her  trutli  too  dearly  proved. 
2  M  2 


4U  '  /LARA. 


The  event  in  section  24,  Canin  2il,  was  suggested  hy  the 
description  of  the  death  or  rather  burial  of  the  Duke  of 
Gandia. 

The  most  interesting  and  particular  account  of  this  myste- 
rious event  is  given  b)-  Burchard,  and  is  in  substance  as  follows  : 
"  On  the  eight  day  of  Jiuie,  the  cardinal  of  Talenza,  and  the 
Duke  of  Gandia,  sons  of  the  Pope,  supped  with  their  mother, 
Vanozza,  near  the  church  of  S.  rictro  ad  vincida ;  several 
other  persons  being  present  at  the  entertainment.  A  late  hour 
approaching,  and  the  cardinal  liaving  reminded  his  brother, 
that  it  was  time  to  return  to  the  apostolic  palace,  they  mounted 
their  horses  or  mules,  with  only  a  few  attendants,  and  pro- 
ceeded together  as  far  as  the  palace  of  cardinal  Ascanio  Sl'orza, 
when  the  duke  informed  the  cardinal,  that  before  he  returned 
home,  he  had  to  pay  a  visit  of  pleasure.  Dismissing,  there- 
fore, all  his  attendants,  excepting  his  stafficro,  or  footman, 
and  a  person  in  a  mask,  who  had  paid  him  a  visit  whilst  at 
supper,  and  who,  during  the  space  of  a  month  or  thereabouts, 
previous  to  this  time,  had  called  upon  him  almost  dailj',  at 
the  apostolic  palace,  he  took  this  person  behind  him  on  his 
mule,  and  proceeded  to  the  street  of  the  Jews,  where  he 
quitted  his  servant,  directing  him  to  remain  there  until  a  cer- 
tain hour;  when,  if  he  did  not  return,  he  might  repair  to  the 
palace.  The  duke  then  seated  the  person  in  the  mask  behind 
him,  and  rode,  T  know  not  whither  ;  but  in  that  night  he  was 
assassinated,  and  thrown  into  the  river.  The  servant,  after 
having  been  dismissed,  was  also  assaulted  and  mortally  wound- 
ed ;  and  although  he  was  attended  with  great  care,  3'et  such 
Avas  his  situation,  tliat  he  could  give  no  intelligible  account  of 
\\liat  had  liel'aJlen  his  master.  In  the  morning,  the  duke  not 
liavini;-  rclurneil  to  the  [lalace,  his  servants  began  to  be  alarmed  ; 
and  one  of  them  informed  the  pontill"  of  the  evening  excursion 
of  his  sous,  and  that  the  duke  had  not  yet  made  his  appearance. 
This  g;ive  the  pope  no  small  anxiety  ;  but  he  conjectured  that 
1iie  duke  Iiad  been  attracted  by  some  courtesan  to  pass  the 
night  with  her,  and  not  choosing  to  quit  the  house  in  open 
day,  had  wailed  till  the  following  evening  to  return  home. 
AVIien,  however,  the  evening  arrived,  and  he  found  himself 
<!isappoinltH!  in  liis  expectations,  he  became  deeply  atllicted, 
and  began  to  make  inquiries  from  dilt'erent  persons,  whom  he 
onUu'ed  to  attend  him  lor  tliat  purpose.  Amongst  these  was  a 
man  named  Giorgio  Schiavoni,  who  having  discharged  some 
limber  from  a  bark  in  Ihe  river,  had  remained  on  board  the 
vessel  to  wafch  i1,  and  been  interrogated  whether  he  had  seen 


LARA.  415 

any  one  throwi  into  the  river  on  tlie  nin;lit  proceeJing,  he  re- 
plied, that  he  saw  two  men  on  foot,  vvlio  came  down  the  street, 
and  looked  dilisentlj'  about,  to  observe  whether  any  person 
■was  passinpf.     That  seeing  no  one,  tliey  returned,  and  a  short 
time  afterwards  two  others  came,  and  looked  around  in  the 
same  manner  as  the  former ;  no  person  still  appearing,  they 
gave  a  sign  to  their  companions,  when  a  man  came,  mounted 
on  a  wliite  horse,  having  behind  him  a  dead  body,  the  head  and 
arms  of  wliich  hung  on  one  side,  and  the  feet  on  the  other 
side  of  the  horse  ;  the  two  persons  on  foot  supporting  the  body, 
to  prevent  its  falling.     They  thus  proceeded  towards  that  part, 
where  the  filth  of  the  city  is  usually  discharged  into  the  river, 
and  turning  the  horse,  with  his  tail  towards  the  water,  the  two 
persons  took  the  dead  body  by  the  arms  and  feet,  and  with  all 
their  strength  flung  it  into  the  river.     The  person  on  horseback 
then   asked  if  they  had  throvv'n  it  in,  to  which  they  replied, 
Signor  si  (yes,  Sir).     He  then  looked  towards  the  river,  and 
seeing  a  mantle  floating  on  the  stream,  he  inquired  what  it 
was  that  appeared  black,  to  which  they  answered,  it  was  a 
maiitle  ;  and  one  of  them  threw  stones  upon  it,  in  consequence 
of  which  it  smik.     The  attendants  of  the  pontift"  then  inquired 
from  Giorgio,  why  he  had  not  revealed  this  to  the  governor 
of  tlie  city ;    to  which  he  replied,    that  he    had   seen  in  his 
time    an    hundred    dead    bodies  thrown  into  the  river  at  the 
same    place,    without    any    inquiry    being    made    respecting 
them,    and    that    he   had    not,    therefore,    considered  it  as  a 
matter  of  any  importance.     The  fisherman  and  seamen  were 
then    collected,   and  ordered  to   search  the  river,   where,  on 
the    following   evening,    they    I'ound    the   body  of   the  duke, 
with  liis  habit    entire,    and  thirty  ducats  in    his  purse.       He 
was    pierced    with    nine    wounds,    one    of  whicii   was  in  his 
throat,  tlie  others  in  his  head,  body,  and  limbs.     No  sooner 
was  tlie  pontifl'  inl'innuni  of   the  death  of  his  son,    and  that 
he  had  been  thrown,    like  filth,  into  the  river,    than  giving 
way    to  'his   grief,    he   shut  himself  up    in   a   chamber    and 
wept  bitterly.     The  cardinal  of  Segovia,  and  other  attendants 
on  the  pope,  went  to  the  door,  and  after  many  hours  spent  in 
persuasions   and    exhortations,    prevailed  upon  him  to  admit 
thein.     From  the   everiiiig  of  Wednesday,  till   the  following 
Saturday,    the   pope   took    no  food  :    nor  did  he   sleep    from 
Tliursday  morning  till  the  same  lioiir  on  the  ensuing  day.     At 
length,  however,  giving  way  to  tlie  entreaties  of  liis  altend- 
nnls,  he   began  to  restrain  his  sorrow,  and  to  consider  the  in- 
jury whicii  his  own  health  might  sustain,  by  the  further  indul- 
of  his  grief." — Koscoe'x  Leu  Tenih,  vol.  i.  page  20.5. 


END  OF  LARA. 


DEDICATION    TO    THK 

BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


TO 
THE   RIGHT  HONOURABLB 

LORD    HOLLAND, 

THIS    TAtE 

IS   INSCRIBED,    WITH 

EVERY    SENTIMENT    OF    REGARD 

AND    RESPECT 

BY    HIS    GRATEFULLY    OBLIGED 

AND    SINCERE    FRIEND, 


BYRON. 


THE 

IDIBIIIDII  ©IF  ^lBiriD®'§^ 

A  TURKISH  TALE. 


"  Had  we  never  loved  so  kindly, 
"  Had  we  never  loved  so  blindly, 
"  Never  met  or  never  parted, 
"  We  had  ne'er  been  broken  hearted." 

Burns, 


CANTO    I. 

I. 

Kkow  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  nnd  myrtle 
Are  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  in  their  clime  ? 

Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love  of  the  turtle. 
Now  melt  into  sorrow,  now  madden  to  crime  ? 

Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine, 

Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever  sliine  : 

^Vhere  the  light  wings  of  Zephyr,  opprest  with  jierfurae,     • 

^Vax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Gul  (I )  in  her  bloom  ; 

Where  the  citron  and  olive  are  fairest  of  fruit, 

And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  never  is  mute 

Where  the  tints  of  the  earth,  and  the  hues  of  the  sky. 

In  colour  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie. 

And  the  purple  of  Ocean  is  deepest  in  die  ; 

Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  tlie  roses  they  twine, 

And  all,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine  ; 

'Tis  the  clime  of  the  east ;  'tis  the  land  of  the  Sun — 

Can  he  smile  on  such  deeijs  as  his  children  h  ivf  i  one  ?  (2) 

Oh!  wild  as  the  accents  of  lovers'  farewell, 

Are  the  hearts  wliich  they  bear,  and  the  tales  which  they  tell. 


120  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


II. 

Begirt  with  many  a  gallant  slave, 
Apparelled  as  becomes  the  brave, 
Awaiting  each  his  lord's  behest. 
To  guide  his  steps,  or  guard  his  rest, 
01<1  Giaffir  sat  in  his  Divan  : 

Deep  thought  was  in  his  aged  eye  ; 
And  though  the  face  of  Mussulman 

Not  ol't  betrays  to  standers  by 
The  mind  within,  well  skilled  to  hide 
All  but  unconquerable  pride, 
His  pensive  cheek  and  pondering  brow 
Did  more  than  he  was  wont  avow. 

III. 

"  Let  the  chamber  be  cleared." — The  train  disappeared- 
"  Now  call  me  the  chief  of  the  Haram  guard." 

^^ith  Giaflir  is  none  but  his  only  son. 

And  the  Nubifin  awaiting  the  sire's  award. 

"  Haroiin — when  all  the  crowd  that  wait 

Are  piissed  beyond  the  outer  gate, 

(Woe  to  the  head  whose  eye  beheld 

My  child  Zuleika's  face  unveiled  !) 

Hence,  lead  my  daughter  from  her  tower : 

Her  fate  is  fixed  this  very  hour  : 

Yet  not  to  her  repeat  my  thought ; 

By  me  alone  be  duty  taught !" 

"  Pacha  !  to  hear  is  to  obey." 
No  more  must  slave  to  despot  say — 
Then  to  the  tower  had  ta'en  his  way. 
But  here  young  Selim  silence  brake, 

First  lowly  rendering  reverence  meet ; 
And  downcast  looked,  and  gently  spake. 

Still  standing  at  the  Pacha's  feet : 
For  son  of  Moslem  must  expire. 
Ere  dare  to  sit  before  his  sire  ! 

"  Father  !  for  fear  that  thou  should'st  chide 
My  sister  or  her  sable  guide, 
Know,  for  the  faidt,  if  fault  there  be, 
Wa-:  mine,  then  fall  thy  frowns  on  me  ; 
So  luvelily  the  morning  shone, 

That—  let  the  old  and  weary  sleep— 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  421 

I  could  not ;  and  to  view  alone 

The  fairest  scenes  of  land  and  deep, 
AVith  none  to  li.sYen  and  reply 
To  thonghls  with  which  my  heart  beat  high 
Were  irksome — for  whatever  my  mood, 
In  sooth  I  love  not  solitude  : 
I  on  Zuleika's  slumbers  broke, 

And,  as  thou  knowest  that  for  me 

Soon  turns  the  Haram's  grating  key, 
Before  the  guardian  slave  awoke 
AVe  to  the  C3'press  groves  had  flown, 
And  made  earth,  main,  and  heaven  our  own  ! 
There  lingered  we,  beguiled  too  long 
With  Mej noun's  tale,  or  Sadi's  song;  (3) 
Till  1,  who  heard  the  deep  tambour  (4) 
Beat  thy  Divan's  approaching  hour, 
To  thee  and  to  my  duly  true, 
AVarnad  by  the  sound,  to  greet  thee  flew  : 
But  there  Zuleika  wanders  yet — 
Nay,  father,  rage  not— nor  forget 
That  none  can  pierce  that  secret  bower 
But  those  who  watch  the  women's  tawer." 

IV. 

"  Son  of  a  slave," — the  Pacha  said — 

"  From  unbelieving  mother  bred. 

Vain  were  a  father's  hope  to  see 

Aught  that  beseems  a  man  in  thee. 

Thou,  when  thine  arm  should  bend  the  bow, 

And  burl  the  dart,  and  curb  the  steed, 

Thou,  Greek  in  soul  if  not  in  creed. 
Must  pore  where  babbling  waters  flow, 
And  watch  unfolding  roses  blow, 
Would  that  yon  orb,  whose  matin  glow 
Thy  listless  eyes  so  much  admire. 
Would  lend  thee  something  of  his  fire  ? 
Thou  vi'bo  wouldsl  see  this  battlement 
By  Christian  cannon  piecemeal  rent ; 
Nay,  tamely  view  old  Stambol's  wall 
Before  the  dogs  of  Moscow  fall. 
Nor  strike  one  stroke  for  life  and  death 
Against  the  curs  of  Nazareth  ! 
Go — let  thy  less  than  woman's  hand 
Assume  the  dlst;iH'— not  the  brand. 
But,  Haroun  ! — to  my  daughter  speed  ; 
And  hark  of  thine  own  head  take  heed — 

2  N 


422  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

If  thus  Zuleika  oft  takes  wing — 

Thou  see'st  jon  bow— it  hath  a  string  !" 

V. 

No  sound  from  Selim's  lip  was  heard, 

At  least  that  met  old  Giaffir's  ear, 
But  even-  frown  and  every  word 
Pierced  keener  than  a  Christian's  sword. 

"  Son  of  a  slave  !  reproached  with  fear  ! 

Those  gibes  had  cost  another  dear. 

Son  of  a  slave  ! — and  who  my  sire  ?" 

Thus  held  his  thoughts  their  dark  career, 
And  glances  even  of  more  than  ire 

Flash  forth,  then  faintly  disappear. 
Old  Giaffir  gazed  upon  his  son 

And  started  ;  for  within  his  eye 
He  read  how  much  his  wrath  had  done ; 
He  saw  rebellion  there  begun  : 

"Come  hither,  boy— what,  no  reply  ? 
I  mark  thee — and  I  know  thee  too  ; 
But  there  be  deeds  thou  dar'st  not  do  ; 
But  if  tiiy  beard  had  manlier  length. 
And  if  thy  hand  had  skill  and  strength, 
I'd  joy  to  see  thee  break  a  lance. 
Albeit  against  my  own  perchance." 

As  sneeringly  these  accents  fell. 
On  Selim's  eye  he  fiercely  gazed  : 

That  eye  returned  him  glance  for  glance, 
And  proudly  to  his  sire's  was  raised. 

Till  Giaffir's  quailed  and  shrunk  askance- 
And  whj'^ — he  felt,  and  durst  not  tell. 
*'  Much  I  misdoubt  this  wayward  boy 
Will  one  day  work  me  more  annoy  : 
1  never  loved  him  from  his  birth. 
And — but  his  arm  is  little  worth 
And  scarcely  in  the  chase  could  cope 
With  timid  fawn  or  antelope. 
Far  less  would  venture  into  strife 
Where  man  contends  for  fame  and  life — 
I  would  not  trust  that  look  or  tone  : 
No — nor  the  blood  so  near  my  own. 
That  blood — he  hath  not  heard^no  more— 
I'll  watch  him  closer  than  before. 
He  is  an  Arab  ( J)  to  mj'  sight, 
Or  Christian  crouching  in  the  fight — 
But  hark  !—  f  hear  Zuleika 's  voice ; 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  423 

Like  Houris'  li)-mn  it  meets  mine  ear 
She  is  the  offspring  of  my  choice  ; 

Oh  !   more  than  ev'n  her  mother  dear, 
With  all  to  hope  and  nought  to  tear — 
My  Peri !   ever  welcome  here  1 
Svveel  as  the  desart-tbuntain's  wave 
To  lips  just  cooled  in  time  to  save — 

Such  to  my  longing  sight  art  thou  ; 
Nor  can  they  watt  to  Mecca's  shrine 
More  thanks  lor  lile,  than  I  lor  thine 

Who  blest  thy  birth,  and  bless  thee  now."  •♦ 

VI. 

Fair,  as  the  first  that  fell  of  womankind, 

When  on  that  dread  yet  lovely  serpent  smiling, 
Whose  image  then  was  stamped  upon  iier  mind — 

But  once  beguiled— and  ever  more  beguiling  ; 
Dazzling,  as  that,  oh!  too  transcendant vision 

To  sorrow's  phantom-peopled  slumber  given, 
Wheu  heart  meet  heart  again  in  dreams  Elysian, 

And  paints  the  lost  on  Earth  revived  in  Heaven  : 
Soft,  as  the  memory  of  buried  love  ; 
Pure,  as  the  prayer  which  childhood  wafts  above  ; 
Was  she— the  daughter  of  that  rude  old  Chief, 
Who  met  the  maid  with  tears— but  not  of  grief. 
Who  hath  not  proved  how  feebly  words  essay 
To  fix  one  spark  of  Beauty's  heavenly  ray? 
Who  doth  not  feel,  untill  his  failing  sight 
Faints  into  dimness  willi  its  own  delight, 
His  changing  cheek,  his   sinking  heart  confess 
The  might — the  majesty  of  Loveliness? 
Such  was  Zuleika — such  around  her  shone 
The  nameless  charms  unmarked  by  her  alone  ; 
The  light  of  love,  tlie  purity  of  grace, 
The  mind,  the  Music  breathing  from  her  face,  (6) 
The  heart  whose  softness  harmoiii/.ed  the  whole — 
And,  oh  !  that  eye  was  in  itself  a  Soul ! 

Her  graceful  arms  in  meekness  bending 

Across  her  gently-budding  breast  ; 
At  one  kind  word  those  arms  extending 

To  clasp  the  neck  of  him  who  blest 

His  child  caressing  and  carest, 

Zuleika  chme — and  Giaffir  felt 

His  purpose  half  wilhiii  him  melt : 

Not  that  against  her  fancied  weal 

His  heart  though  stern  could  never  feel ; 


424  THE  BRTDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

AU'ection  chained  her  to  that  heart ; 
Ambition  tore  the  links  apart. 

VII. 

"  Ziileika  !  cliild  of  gentleness  .' 

How  dear  this  very  day  must  tell. 
When  I  forget  my  own  distress, 

In  losinfi;  what  I  love  so  well, 

To  bid  thee  with  another  dwell ; 

Another  !  and  a  braver  man 

Was  never  seen  in  battle's  van. 
We  Moslem  reck  not  m\ich  of  blood  5 

But  yet  the  line  of  Carasman  (7) 
Unchanged,  unchangeable  hath  stood'- 
First  of  the  bolil  Timariot  bands 
That  won  and  well  can  keep  their  lands. 
Enough  Uiat  he  who  comes  to  woo 
Is  kinsman  of  the  Bey  Oglou  : 
His  years  need  scarce  a  thought  employ  ; 
I  would  not  have  thee  wed  a  boy. 
And  thou  shalt  have  a  noble  dower ; 
And  his  and  my  united  power 
Will  laugh  to  scorn  the  death-firman, 
Which  others  tremble  but  to  scan. 
And  teach  the  messenger  (8;  what  fate 
The  bearer  of  such  boon  may  wait. 
And  now  thou  know'st  thy  father's  will, 

All  that  thy  sex  had  need  to  know  ; 
'Twas  mine  to  teach  obedience  still — 

The  way  to  love,  thy  lord  may  show." 

VHI. 

In  silence  bow'd  the  virgin's  head  ; 

And  if  her  eye  was  filled  with  tears 
That  stifled  feeling  dare  not  shed, 
And  changed  her  cheek  from  pale  to  red, 

And  red  to  pale,  as  through  her  ears 
Those  winged  words  like  arrows  sped. 

What  could  such  be  but  maiden  fears  ? 
So  bright  the  tear  in  Beauty's  eye. 
Love  half  regrets  to  kiss  it  dry  ; 
So  sweet  the  blush  of  Bashfulness, 
Even  Pity  scarce  can  wish  it  less  ! 
Whate'er  it  was  the  sire  forgot ; 
Or  if  remembered,  marked  it  not : 
Thrice  clapped  his  hands,  and  called  his  steed,  (9) 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  ^25 

Resigned  his  gem-adorned  Chibouque,  (10) 
And  mounting  featly  lor  ttie  mead, 

With  Maugrabee  (11)  and  Manialuke, 

His  way  amid  his  Delis  took,  (12) 
To  witness  many  an  active  deed 
With  sabre  keen,  or  blunt  jereed. 
The  Kislar  only  and  his  INIoors 
Watch  well  the  Harum's  massy  doors. 

IX. 

Ills  head  was  leant  upon  his  hand, 

«  His  eye  looked  o'er  the  dark  blue  water 

That  swiftly  glides  and  c;en{ly  swells 

Between  the  winding  Dardanelles  ; 

But  yet  he  saw  nor  sea  nor  strand. 

Nor  even  his  Pacha's  turbaned  band 
Mic  in  the  game  of  mimic  slaughter. 

Careering  cleave  the  folded  felt  (13) 

With  sabre  stroke  right  sharply  dealt ; 

Nor  marked  the  javelin-darting  crowd. 

Nor  heard  their  OUalis  (14)  wild  and  loud- 
He  thought  but  of  old  Giaflir's  daughter  ? 

X. 

No  word  from  Selim's' bosom  broke  j 
One  sigh  Zuleika's  thought  bespoke  : 
Still  gazed  he  through  the  lattice  grate. 
Pale,  mute,  and  mournfully  sedate. 
To  him  Zuleika's  eye  was  turned. 
But  little  from  his  aspect  learned  : 
Equal  her  grief,  yet  not  the  same  ; 
Her  heart  confessed  a  gentler  flame  : 
But  yet  that  heart  alarmed  or  weak. 
She  knew  not  why,  forbade  to  speak. 
Yet  speak  she  must— but  when  essay  ? 
"  How  strange  he  thus  should  turn  away ! 
Not  thus  we  e'er  before  have  met ; 
Nor  thus  shall  be  our  parting  yet." 
Thrice  paced  she  slowly  through  the  room. 

And  watched  his  eye— it  slill  was  fixed  : 

She  snatched  the  urn  wherein  was  mixed 
The  Persian  Atar-gul's  (ir^)  perfume. 
And  sprinkled  all  its  odours  o'er 
The  pictured  roof  (10)  and  marble  tloor  : 
The  drops,  that  through  his  glittering  vest 
The  playful  girl's  appeal  addrest, 
l^iiheeded  o'er  his  bosom  flew, 
As  if  that  breast  were  marble  too. 
**  2  N  2 


426  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

"  What  sullen  yet  ?  it  must  not  be — 
Oh  !  gentle  Soliin,  this  from  thee  !" 
She  saw  in  curious  order  set 

The  fairest  flowers  of  Eastern  land — 
"  He  loved  them  once  ;  may  touch  them  yet. 

If  offered  by  Zuleika's  hand." 
The  childish  thought  was  hardly  breathed 
Before  the  Rose  was  plucked  and  wreathed  j 
The  next  fond  moment  saw  her  seat 
Her  fairy  form  at  Selim'sfeet: 
*'  This  rose  to  calm  ni}'  brother's  cares 
A  message  from  the  Bulbul  (17)  bears  ; 
It  says  to-night  it  will  prolong 
For  Selim's  ear  his  sweetest  song  ; 
And  though  his  note  is  somewhat  sad,     ^ 
He'll  try  for  once  a  strain  more  glad, 
With  some  faint  hope  his  altered  lay 
May  sing  these  gloomy  thoughts  away. 

XI. 

What !  not  receive  my  floolish  flower? 

Nay  tiien  I  am  indeed  unblest : 
On  me  can  thus  thy  forehead  lower  ? 

And  know'st  thou  not  who  loves  thee  best? 
Oh,  Selim  dear  !   Oh,  more  than  dearest ! 
Say,  is  it  me  thou  hat'st  or  fearest  ? 
Come,  lay  thy  head  upon  my  breast, 
And  I  will  kiss  thee  into  rest, 
Since  words  of  mine,  and  songs  must  fail. 
Even  from  my  fabled  )ughtingale. 
I  knew  our  sire  at  times  was  stern, 
But  this  from  Ihee  had  yet  lo  learn  : 
Too  well  J  know  he  loves  thee  not ; 
But  is  Zuleika's  love  forgot  ? 
Ah  !  deem  T  right  ?  the  Pacha's  plan — 
This  kinsman  Bey  of  Carasnnui 
Perhaps  may  prove  some  foe  of  thine. 
If  so,  I  swear  by  Mecca's  shiine, 
J  f  shrines  that  ne'er  approach  allow 
To  wonuui's  step  admit  her  vow, 
W'ithont  thy  free  consent,  command, 
The  Sultan  should  not  iiave  my  hand  ! 
Think'st  thou  that  1  couhl  hear  to  part 
M'ith  thee,  and  learn  to  halve  my  heart? 
Ah  !  were  i  severed  from  thy  side. 
Where  were  tl)j-  friend— and  who  my  guide  ? 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  421 

Years  have  not  seen,  Timo  shall  not  see 
The  hoiiv  that  tears  my  soul  from  thee  ; 
Even  Azrael,  (18)  from  his  deadly  quiver 

When  flies  that  shaft,  and  fly  it  must, 
That  parts  all  else,  shall  doom  for  ever 

Our  hearts  to  undivided  dust !'' 

XII. 

He  lived— he  breathed— he  moved— he  felt, 
He  raised  the  maid  from  where  she  knelt : 
His  trance  was  gone— his  keen  eye  shone 
With  thoughts  that  long  in  darkness  dwelt : 
With  thoughts  that  burn — in  rays  that  melt. 

As  the  stream  late  concealed 

By  the  fringe  of  its  willows, 
When  it  rushes  revealed 

In  the  light  of  its  billows  ; 
As  the  bolt  burst  o)i  high 

From  the  dark  cloud  that  bound  it. 
Flashed  the  soul  of  thate3'e 

Through  the  long  lashes  round  it. 
A  warhorse  at  the  trumpet's  sound 
A  lion  roused  l»y  heedless  hound, 
A  tyrant  waked  to  sudden  strife 
By  graze  of  ill-directed  knife, 

Starts  not  to  mure  convulsive  life. 

Than  he,  who  iieard  that  vow  displayed. 

And  all,  before  repressed,  betrayed  : 

«  Now  thou  art  mine,  lor  ever  mine. 

With  life  to  keep,  and  scarce  with  life  resign  ^ 

Now  thou  art  mine,  that  sacred  oath, 

Though  sworn  by  one,  hath  bound  us  both. 

Yes,  fondly,  wisely  hast  thou  done, 

That  vow  had  saved  more  heads  than  one  : 

But  blench  not  thou— thy  simplest  tress 

Claims  more  Jrom  me  than  tenderness  : 

I  would  not  wrong  tiie  slenderest  hair 

That  clusters  round  thy  forehead  fair. 

For  all  the  treasures  buried  far 

Within  the  caves  of  Istakar.  (19) 

This  morning  clouds  upon  me  lowered, 
Jleproaches  on  my  head  were  showered. 
And  Giaffir  almost  called  me  coward  ! 
Now  I  have  motive  to  be  brave  ; 
The  son  of  his  neglected  slave, 
Nay,  start  not,  'twas  the  term  he  gave, 


428  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

May  show,  though  little  apt  to  vaunt, 

A  heart  his  words  no  deeds  can  daunt. 

His  son,  indeed  ! — yet,  thanlcs  to  thee, 

Perchance  I  am,  at  least  shall  be  ; 

But  let  our  (iliffhted  secret  vow 

Be  only  known  to  us  as  now. 

I  know  the  wretch  who  dares  demand 

From  Giaflir  thy  reluctant  hand  ; 

More  ill-got  wealth,  a  meaner  soul 

Holds  not  a  INIusselim's  (20)  control : 

Was  he  not  bred  in  Egripo  ?  (21) 

A  viler  race  let  Israel  show  ! 

But  let  them  pass — to  none  be  told 

Our  oath  :  the  rest  shall  time  unfold. 

To  me  and  mine  leave  Osman  Bey ; 

I've  partizans  for  peril's  day  ; 

Think  not  I  am  what  I  appear  ; 

I've  arms,  and  friends,  and  vengeance  near. 

XIII, 

"  Think  not  thou  art  what  thou  appearest ! 

My  Selim,  tliou  art  sadly  changed  : 
This  morn  I  saw  thee  gentlest,  dearest ; 

But  now  thou'rt  from  thyself  estranged. 
My  love  thou  surely  knew'st  before. 
It  ne'er  was  less,  nor  can  be  more. 
To  see  thee,  hear  thee,  near  thee  stay, 

And  hate  the  night  I  know  not  why. 
Save  that  we  meet  not  but  by  day ; 

With  thee  to  live,  with  thee  to  die, 

I  dare  not  to  my  hope  deny  : 
Thy  cheek,  thine  eyes,  thy  lips  to  kiss. 
Like  tins — and  this — no  more  than  this  ; 
For,  Alia!  sure  tliy  lips  are  flame  : 

What  fever  in  thy  veins  is  flushing? 
My  own  have  nearly  caught  the  same, 

At  least  I  feel  my  cheek  too  blushing. 
To  soothe  thy  sickness,  watch  thy  health 
Partake  but  never  waste  thy  wealth, 
Or  stand  with  smiles  unmurmuring  by, 
And  lighten  half  thy  poverty  ; 
Do  all  but  close  thy  dying  eye. 
For  that  I  could  not  live  to  trj- ; 
To  these  alone  my  thoughts  aspire  : 
More  can  I  do  ?  or  thou  require  ? 
But,  Selim,  thou  must  answer  why 
W»s  need  so  much  of  mystery  ? 


'  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  42tt 

The  cause  I  cannot  dream  nor  tell, 

}}ut  be  it,  since  thou  say'st  'tis  well ; 

Yet  what  thou  mean'st  by  '  arms'  and  '  friends,' 

Beyond  my  weaker  sense  extends. 

I  meant  that  Giaffir  should  have  heard 

The  very  vow  I  plighted  thee ; 
His  wrath  would  not  revoke  my  word  : 

But  surely  he  would  leave  me  free. 

Can  this  fond  wish  seem  strange  in  me, 
To  be  what  I  have  ever  been  ? 
AVhat  other  hath  Zuleikaseen 
From  simple  chidhood's  earliest  hour? 

What  other  can  she  seek  to  see 
Than  thee,  companion  of  her  bower, 

The  partner  of  her  infancy, 
These  cherished  thoughts  with  life  begun. 

Say,  why  must  I  no  more  avow  ? 
What  change  is  wrought  to  make  me  shun 

I'he  truth  :  my  pride,  and  tbine  till  now  ? 
To  meet  the  gaze  of  strangers'  eyes. 
Our  law,  our  creed,  our  God  denies  : 
Nor  shall  one  wandering  thought  of  mine 
At  such,  our  Prophet's  will,  repine  ; 
No  !  happier  made  by  that  decree  ! 
He  left  me  all  in  leaving  thee. 

Deep  were  my  anguish,  thus  compelled 
To  wed  with  one  I  ne'er  beheld  ; 
This  wherefore  should  1  not  reveal  ? 
Why  wilt  thou  urge  me  to  conceal  ? 
I  know  the  Pacha's  haughty  mood 
To  thee  hath   never  boded  good    ; 
And  he  so  often  storms  at  nought, 
Alia  !  forbid  that  e'er  he  ought! 
And  why  1  know  not,  but  w  ithin 
My  heart  concealment  weighs  like  sin. 

If  then  such  secrecy  be  crime, 

And  such  it  feels  while  lurking  here  ; 
Oh,  Selim  !   tell  me  yet  in  time, 

Nor  leave  me  thus  to  thoughts  of  fear. 
Ah  yonder  see  the  Tchocadar,  (22J 
My  father  leaves  the  mimic  war  ; 
I  tremble  now  to  meet  liis  eye — 
Say,  Selim,  can'st  thou  tell  me  why  7" 


430  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

XIV. 

"  Zuleika  !  to  tli}'  tower's  retreat 

Betake  thee — Giaffir  I  can  greet ; 

And  now  with  him  I  fain  must  prate 

Of  firmans,  imposts,  levies,  state. 

There's  fearful  news  from  Danube's  banks ; 

Our  Vizier  nobly  thins  his  ranks, 

For  which  the  Giaour  may  give  him  thanks ! 

Our  Sultan  hath  a  shorter  way 

Such  costly  triumph  to  repay. 

But,  mark  me,  when  the  twilight  drum 
Hath  warn'd  the  troops  to  food  and  sleep. 

Unto  thy  cell  will  Selim  come  ; 

Then  softly  from  the  Haram  creep 
Where  we  may  wander  by  the  deep, 
Our  garden  battlements  are  steep  ; 

Nor  these  will  rash  intruder  climb 

To  list  our  words,  or  stint  our  time, 

And  if  he  doth,  I  want  not  steel. 

Which  some  have  felt,  and  more  may  feel. 

Then  sLalt  Ihou  learn  of  Selim  more. 

Than  thou  hast  heard  or  thought  before  ; 

Trust  me,  Zuleika — fear  not  me  ! 

Thou  know'st  I  hold  a  Haram  key." 

"  Fear  thee,  my  Selim  !  ne'er  till  now 
Did  word  like  this—" 

"  Delay  not  tbou  ; 
I  keep  the  kej- — and  Haroun's  guard 
Have  Slime,  and  hope  of  more  reward. 
To-night,  Zuleika,  thou  shalt  hear 
My  tale,  my  purpose,  and  my  fear; 
I  am  not,  love  !  what  I  appear." 


END    OF    CANTO   I. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  431 


THE 


BRIDE   OF   ABYDOS. 


CANTO    II. 


L 

The  winds  are  high  on  Helle's  wave, 

As  on  that  night  of  stormy  water 
When  Love,  who  sent,  forgot  to  save 
The  young,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 
The  only  hope  of  Sestos'  daughter. 
Oh  r  when  alone  along  the  sky 
Her  turret-torch  was  blazing  high, 
Though  rising  gale,  and  breaking  foam, 
And  shrieking  sea-birds  warned  him  home  ; 
And  clouds  aloft,  and  tides  below, 
With  signs  and  sounds,  forbade  to  go  ; 
He  could  not  see,  he  would  not  hear 
Or  sound  or  sign  foreboding  fear  ; 
His  eye  but  saw  that  light  of  love, 
The  only  star  it  hailed  above  ; 
His  ear  but  rang  with  Hero's  song, 
"  Ve  waves,  divide  not  lovers  long  ! " 
That  tale  is  old,  but  love  anew 
May  nerve  your  hearts  to  prove  as  true. 


II. 

The  winds  are  high,  and  Helle's  tide 
Rolls  darkly  heaving  to  tiie  main  ; 

And  Night's  descending  sliadows  hide 
That  field  of  blood  bedewed  in  vain, 


432  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

The  (tesart  of  old  Priam's  pride  ; 

^Tbe  toml),s,  sole  relics  ol'  his  reipjii 
All — sfive  immortal  dreams  that  could  beguile 
The  blind  old  man  of  Scio's  rocky  isle  ! 

III. 

Oh  I  yet  —for  there  my  steps  have  been  ; 

These  feet  have  pressed  the  sacred  shore, 
Tliese  limbs  that  buoyant  wave  hath  borne- 
Minstrel!  with  thee  to  muse,  to  mourn. 

To  trace  again  those  fields  of  yore, 
Believing  every  hillock  green 

Contains  no  fabled  hero's  ashes. 
Anil  that  around  the  undoubted  scene  ^ 

7'hine  own  "  broad  Hellespont"  (23)  still  dashes, 
Be  long  my  lot !  and  cold  were  he 
Who  there  could  gaze  denying  thee  ! 

IV. 

The  night  hath  closed  on  Helle's  stream, 

Nor  yet  hath  risen  on  Ida's  hill 
Tliat  moon,  which  shone  on  his  high  theme  : 
No  warrior  chides  her  peaceful  beam, 

But  conscious  shepherds  bless  it  still. 
Their  flocks  are  grazing  on  the  mound 

Of  him  who  felt  the  Dardan's  arrow ; 
That  mighty  heap  of  gathered  ground 
Which  Ammon's  (24)  son  ran  proudly  round. 
By  nations  raised,  by  monarchs  crowned. 

Is  now  a  lone  and  nameless  barrow  ! 

Within — thy  dwelling-place  how  narrow  ! 
'       Without — can  only  strangers  breathe 
The  name  of  him  that  was  beneath  : 
Dust  long  outlasts  the  storied  stone  j 
Bui  Thou — tby  very  dust  is  gone  ! 


Late,  late  to-night  will  Dian  cheer 

The  swain,  and  chase  the  boatman's  fear; 

Till  then — no  beacon  on  the  clift" 

May  shape  the  course  of  struggling  skiff 

The  scattered  lights  that  skirt  the  ha\ , 

All,  one,  by  one,  have  died  away  ; 

The  only  lamp  of  this  lone  hour 

h  glimmering  in  Zuleika's  tower. 


'         THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  433 

Yes !  there  is  light  in  that  lone  cUamber, 

And  o'er  her  silken  Oltoniuti 
Are  thrown  the  fmgrant  beads  of  amber, 

O'er  which  her  fairy  fingers  ran  ; 
Near  these,  with  emerald  rays  beset, 
(How  could  she  thus  that  gem  forget  ?) 
Her  mother's  sainted  amulet  (^6) 
Whereon  engraved  the  Koorsee  text. 
Could  smooth  this  life,  and  win  the  next; 
And  by  her  Comboloio  (27)  lies 
A  Koran  of  illumined  dyes ; 
And  many  a  bright  emblazoned  rhyme 
By  Persian  scribes  redeemed  from  time ; 
And  o'er  those  scrolls,  not  oft  so  mute. 
Reclines  her  now  neglected  lute  5 
And  round  her  lamp  of  fretted  gold, 
Bloom  flowers  in  urns  of  china's  mould  ; 
The  richest  work  of  Iran's  loom 
And  Sheeraz'  tribute  of  perfume  ; 
All  that  can  eye  or  sense  delight 

Are  gathered  in  that  gorgeous  room  : 
But  yet  it  hath  an  air  of  gloom. 
She,  of  this  Peri  cell  the  sprite, 
What  doth  she  hence,  and  on  so  rude  a/night  ? 

VI. 

Wrapt  in  the  darkest  sable  vest, 

Which  none  save  noblest  Moslem  wear. 
To  guard  from  winds  of  heaven  the  breast 

As  heaven  Itself  to  Selim  dear, 
With  cautious  steps  the  thicket  treading. 

And  starting  oft,  as  through  the  glade 

The  gust  its  hollow  moanings  made. 
More  free  her  timid  bosom  beat. 

The  maid  pursued  her  silent  guide  ; 
And  though  her  terror  urged  retreat, 

How  could  she  quit  her  Selim's  side  ? 

How  teuch  her  tender  lips  to  chide  ? 

VII. 

They  reached  at  length  a  grotto,  hewn 

By  nature,  but  enlarged  by  art, 
Where  oft  her  lute  she  wont  to  tune. 
And  oft  her  Koran  conned  apart ; 
And  oft  in  youthful  reverie 
She  dreamed  what  Paradise  might  be  : 
2  O 


434  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

Where  woman's  parted  soul  shall  go 
Her  Prophet  had  disdained  to  show  ; 
But  Selim's  mansion  was  secure, 
Nor  deemed  she,  could  he  long  endure 
His  bower  in  other  worlds  of  bliss. 
Without  her,  most  beloved  in  this  ! 
Oh  !  v.ho  so  dear  with  him  could  dwell  ? 
What  Houri  soothe  him  half  so  well  ? 

VHI. 

Since  last  she  visited  the  spot 

Some  change  seemed  wrought  within  the  grot : 

It  might  be  only  that  the  night 

Disguised  things  seen  by  better  light< 

That  brazen  lamp  but  dimly  threw 

A  ray  of  no  celestial  hue  ; 

But  in  a  nook  within  the  cell, 

Her  eye  on  stranger  objects  fell. 

There  arms  were  piled,  not  such  as  wield 

The  turbaned  Delis  in  the  field  ; 

But  brands  of  foreign  blade  and  hilt ; 

And  one  was  red — perchance  with  guilt ! 

Ah  !  how  without  can  blood  be  spilt  ? 

A  cup  too  on  the  board  was  set 

That  did  not  seem  to  hold  sherbet. 

What  may  this  mean  ?    she  turned  to  see 

Her  Selim— "  Oh  !  can  this  be  he  ?" 

IX. 

His  robe  of  pride  was  thrown  aside, 

His  brow  no  high-crowned  turban  bore, 
But  in  its  stead  a  shawl  of  red, 

Wreathed  lightly  round,  his  temples  wore  : 
That  ilagger,  on  whose  hilt  the  gem 
Were  worthy  of  fi  diadem, 
No  longer  glittered  at  his  waist, 
Where  pistols  unadorned  were  braced  ; 
And  from  his  belt  a  sabre  swung. 
And  from  his  shoulder  loosely  hung 
The  cloalc  of  white,  the  thiu  capote 
'i'hat  decks  the  wandering  Candiote  : 
Jieneath— his  golden  plated  vest 
Clung  like  a  cuirass  to  his  breast ; 
'I'he  greaves  below  his  knee  that  wouiii! 
^Vilh  silvery  scales  were  sheathed  and  bound. 
But  were  it  not  that  high  command 
Spake  in  his  eye,  and  tone,  and  hand, 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  43J 

All  that  a  careless  eye  could  see 

Iji  Iiini  was  some  young  Galioiigee.  (28) 

X. 

"  I  said  I  was  not  what  I  seemed  ; 
'    And  now  thou  seest  my  words  are  true  : 
I  have  a  tale  tliou  hast  not  dreamed. 
If  sooth — its  truth  must  others  rue. 
My  story  now  'twere  vain  to  hide, 
I  must  not  see  thee  Osman's  bride  : 
But  had  not  thine  own  lips  declared 
How  much  of  that  young  heart  I  shared, 
I  could  not,  must  not,  yet  have  shown 
The  darker  secret  of  my  own. 
In  this  I  speak  not  now  of  love  ; 
That,  let  time,  truth,  and  peril  prove  ; 
But  first — oh  !   never  wed  another — 
Zuleika  !    I  urn  not  thy  brother  !" 

XI.  ■ 

"  Oh  !  not  my  brother  ! — yet  unsay — 

God  I    am  I  left  alone  on  earth 
To  mourn — I  dare  not  curse — the  day 

That  saw  my  solitary  birth  ? 
Oh !  thou  wilt  love  me  now  no  more  ! 

My  sinking  heart  foreboded  ill  ; 
But  know  me  all  I  was  before. 

Thy  sister— friend— Zuleika  still. 
Thou  led'st  me  here  perchance  to  kill : 
If  thou  hast  cause  for  vengeance,  see  ! 
My  breast  is  ollered — take  thy  fill  1 
Far  better  with  the  dead  to  be 
Than  live  thus  nothing  now  to  thee  ; 
Perhaps  far  worse,  for  now  I  know 
Why  Giaflir  always  seemed  thy  foe  : 
And  I,  alas  !  am  Giailir's  child. 
For  whom  thou  wert  contemned,  reviled. 
If  not  tliy  sister— wouldst  thou  save 
My  life,  Oh  !  bid  me  be  thy  slave  !" 

XII. 

"  My  slave,  Zuleika  !— nay,  I'm  thine  : 
But,  gentle  love,  this  transport  calm. 
Thy  lot  shall  yet  be  linked  with  mine  ; 
I  swear  it  by  our  Prophet's  iiih,rine,    , 


436  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYD03. 

And  be  Ihat  tbought  th}'  sorrow's  balm. 
So  may  the  Koran  (29)  verse  displayed 
Upon  its  steel  direct  my  blade, 
In  danger's  hour  to  guard  us  both, 
As  I  preserve  that  awl'ul  oath  ! 
The  name  in  which  thy  heart  hath  prided 

Must  change  ;  but,  my  Zuleika,  know, 
That  tie  is  widened,  not  divided. 

Although  thy  Sire's  my  deadliest  foe. 
My  father  was  to  Giaffir  all 

That  Selim  late  was  deemed  to  thee  ; 
That  brother  wrought  a  brother's  fall, 

But  spared,  at  least,  my  infancy! 
And  lulled  me  with  a  vain  deceit 
That  yet  a  like  return  may  meet. 
He  reared  me,  not  with  tender  help, 

But  like  the  nephew  of  a  Cain  ;  (30) 
He  watched  me  like  a  lion's  whelp. 

That  gnaws  and  yet  may  break  his  cbnin. 
My  father's  blood  in  everj'  vein 
Is  boiling  ;  but  I'or  thy  dear  sake 
No  present  vengeance  will  I  take  ; 

Though  here  I  must  no  more  remain.      ' 
But  first,  beloved  Zuleika  !  hear 
How  Giaffir  wrought  this  deed  of  fear. 

XIII. 

How  first  their  strife  to  rancour  grew, 

If  love  or  envy  made  them  foes, 
It  matters  little  if  I  knew  ; 
In  fiery  spirits,  slights,  though  few 

And  thoughtless,  will  disturb  repose. 
In  war  Abdallah's  arm  was  strong, 
Remembered  yet  in  Bosniac  song. 
And  Paswan's  (31 )  rebel  hordes  attest 
How  little  love  they  bore  such  guest : 
His  death  is  all  I  need  relate. 
The  stern  effect  of  Giaffir'shate  ; 
And  how  my  birth  disclosed  to  me, 
Whate'er  beside  it  makes,  hath  made  me  free. 


XIV. 

When  Paswan,  after  years  of  strife. 
At  last  for  power,  but  first  for  life. 
In  Widin's  walls  too  proudly  sate. 
Our  Pachas  rallied  round  the  state  ; 


'  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  437 

Nor  last  nor  least  in  high  command 
Each  brother  lead  a  separate  band  ; 
They  gave  their  horsetails  (32)  to  the  wind, 

And  mustering  in  Sophia's  plain 
Their  tents  were  pitched,  their  post  assigned ; 

To  one,  alas  !  assigned  in  vain  ! 
What  need  of  words  ?  the  deadly  bowl, 

By  Giaffir's  order  drugged  and  given, 
With  venom  subtle  as  his  soul, 

Dismissed  Abdallah-'s  hence  to  heaven. 
Reclined  and  feverish  in  the  bath, 

He,  when  the  hunter's  sport  was  up. 
But  little  deemed  a  brother's  wrath 

To  quench  his  thirst  had  such  a  cup  : 
The  bowl  a  bribed  attendant  bore  ; 
He  drank  one  draught,  (33)  nor  needed  more  ! 
If  thou  m}-  tale,  Zuleika,  doubt, 
Call  Haroun — he  can  tell  it  out. 

XV. 

Tlie  deed  once  done,  and  Paswan's  feud 

In  part  suppressed,  though  ne'er  subdued, 

Abdallah's  Pachalick  was  gained  : 

Thou  know'st  Jiot  what  in  our  Divan 

Can  wealth  procure  for  worse  than  man — 

Abdallah's  honours  were  obtained 

By  him  a  brother's  murder  stained  : 

'Tis  true,  the  purchase  nearly  drained 

His  ill  got  treasure,  soon  replaced. 

Would'st  question  whence  ?     Survey  the  waste, 

And  ask  the  squalid  peasant  how 

His  gains  repay  his  broiling  brow  !  — 

V/hy  me  the  stern  usurper  spared, 

^Vhy  thus  with  me  his  palace  shared, 

I  know  not.     Slianie,  regret,  remorse, 

And  little  fear  from  infant's  force  ; 

Besides,  adoption  as  a  son 

By  him  whom  Heaven  accorded  none. 

Or  some  unknown  cabal,  caprice. 

Preserved  me  thus  : — but  not  in  pcitce  : 

He  cannot  curb,  his  haughty  mood, 

Nor  I  forgive  a  father's  blued. 

XVI. 

Within  thy  father's  house  are  foes ; 
Not  all  who  break  his  bread  are  true  : 
2  0  2 


438  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

To  lliese  should  I  my  birth  disclose, 

His  days,  his  very  hours  were  few  : 
Tliey  only  want  a  heart  to  lead, 
A  hand  to  point  them  to  the  deed. 
But  Haroun  only  knows,  or  knew 

Tiiis  tale,  whose  close  is  almost  nigh  : 
He  In  Abdallah's  palace  grew, 

And  held  that  post  in  his  Serai 

Which  holds  he  here — he  saw  him  die  : 
But  what  could  single  slavery  do  ? 
Avenge  his  lord  ?  alas  !  too  late  ; 
Or  save  his  son  from  such  a  fate  ? 
He  chose  the  last,  and  when  elate 

With  foes  subdued,  or  friends  betrayed, 
Proud  Giuffir  in  high  triumph  sate, 
He  led  me  helpless  to  his  gate. 

And  not  in  vain  it  seems  essayed 

To  save  the  life  for  which  he  prayed. 
The  knowledge  of  my  birth  secured 

From  all  and  each,  b\it  most  from  me  ; 
Thus  Giaffir's  safety  was  ensured. 

Removed  he  too  from  Roumelie 
To  this  our  Asiatic  side. 
Far  from  our  seats  by  Danube's  tide, 

With  none  but  Haroun,  who  retains 
Such  knowledge — and  that  Nubian  feels 

A  tyrant's  secrets  are  but  chains, 
Fiom  which  the  cai'tive  gladly  steals. 
And  this  and  more  to  me  reveals  : 
Such  still  to  guilt  just  Alia  sends 
Sbives,  tools,  accomplices — no  friends  ! 

xvn. 

All  this,  Zuleika,  harshly  sounds  ; 

But  harsher  still  nir  tale  must  be  : 
Howe'er  my  tongue  thj'  softness  wounds 

Yet  J  nnist  prove  all  Irulh  to  thee. 

I  saw  thee  start  this  garb  to  see. 
Yet  is  it  one  I  oft  have  worn, 

And  long  must  wear  :  this  Galiongee, 
To  whom  thy  plighted  vow  is  sworn. 

Is  leacier  of  tho^e  pirates  hordes, 

Wllos^'  laws  and  lives  are  on  their  sworcfi  ; 
To  hear  whose  desolating  tale 
Would  make  thy  waning  cheek  more  pale  : 
vVhose  arms  thou  see'st  my  band  have  brought, 
The  hands  that  wield  are  not  remote  ; 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  439 

This  cup  too  for  the  rugged  knaves 

Is  filled — once  quaffed,  they  ne'er  repine: 

Our  Prophet  might  forgive  the  slaves  j 
They're  only  infidels  in  wine. 

XVIII.  _ 

What  could  I  be  ?     Proscribed  at  home, 

And  taunted  to  a  wish  to  roam  ; 

And  listless  left — for  GiafTir's  fear 

Denied  the  courser  and  the  spear — 

Though  oft— Oh,  Mahomet !  how  oft  !— 

In  full  Divan  the  despot  scoffed, 

As  if  my  weak  unwilling  hand 

Refused  the  bridle  or  the  brand  : 

He  ever  went  to  war  alone, 

And  pent  me  here  untried,  unknown  ; 

To  Haroun's  care  with  women  left. 

By  hope  unblest,  of  fame  bereft. 

While  thou— whose  softness  long  endeared, 

Though  it  unmanned  me,  still  had  cheered — 

To  Brusa's  walls  for  safety  sent, 

Awaited'st  there  the  field's  event. 

Haroun,  who  saw  my  spirit  pining 
Beneath  inaction's  sluggish  yoke. 

His  captive,  though  with  dread  resigning, 
My  thraldom  for  a  season  broke, 

On  promise  to  return  before 

The  day  when  Giaffir*s  charge  was  o'er. 

'Tis  vain — my  tongue  can  not  impart 

My  almost  drunkenness  of  heart. 

When  first  this  liberated  eye 

Surveyed  Earth,  Ocean,  Sun  and  Sky, 

As  if  my  spirit  pierced  them  through. 

And  all  their  inmost  wonders  knew  ! 

One  word,  alone  can  paint  to  thee 

That  mere  than  feeling — I  was  Free  !  ^ 

Even  for  thy  presence  ceased  to  pine ; 

The  World — nay — Heaven  itself  was  mine  ! 

XIX. 

The  shallop  of  a  trusty  Moor' 
Conveyed  me  from  this  idle  shore ; 
I  long  to  see  the  i»les  that  gem 
Old  Ocean's  purple  diadem  : 
I  nought  by  turns,  and  saw  them  all ;  (34) 
But  when  and  where  I  joined  the  crew. 


-^C 


440  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

With  whom  I'm  pledged  to  rise  or  fall, 

Whan  all  that  we  design  to  do 
Is  done,  'will  then  be  time  more  meet 
To  tell  thee,  when  the  tale's  complete. 

XX. 

'Tis  true,  they  are  a  lawless  brood.l 
But  rough  in  form,  nor  mild  in  mood } 
And  every  creed,  and  every  race. 
With  them  hath  found— may  find  a  place  : 
But  open  speech,  and  ready  hand, 
Obedience  to  their  chief's  command  ; 
A  soul  lor  every  enterprize, 
That  never  sees  with  terror's  eyes  ; 
Friendship  for  each,  and  faith  to  all,    ' 
And  vengeance  vow'd  for  those  who  fall, 
Have  made  them  fitting  instruments 
For  more  than  ev'n  my  own  intents. 
And  some— and  I  have  studied  all 

Distinguished  from  the  vulgar  rank, 
But  chiefly  to  my  council  call 

The  wisdom  of  the  cautious  Frank— 
And  some  to  higher  thoughts  aspire, 
The  last  of  Lambro's  (35)  patriots  there 
Anticipated  freedom  share : 
And  oft  aroud  the  cavern  fire 
On  visionary  schemes  debate. 
To  snatch  the  Riiyahs  (36)  from  their  fate. 
So  let  them  ease  their  hearts  with  prate 
Of  equal  rights,  which  man  ne'er  knew  ; 
I  have  a  love  for  freedom  too. 

Ay  !  let  me  like  the  ocean-Patriarch  (37)  roam, 

Or  only  know  on  land  the  Tartar's  home  !  (3S) 

My  tent  on  shore,  my  galley  on  the  sea, 

Are  more  than  cities  and  Serais  to  me  : 

Borne  by  my  steed,  or  wafted  by  my  sail. 

Across  the  desart,  or  before  the  gale, 

Bound  where  thou  wilt,  my  barb  !  or  glide,  my  prow  ! 

But  be  the  star  that  guides  the  wanderer,  Thou ! 

Thou,  my  Zuleika,  share  and  bless  my  bark  ; 

The  Dove  of  peace  and  promise  to  mine  ark  ! 

Or,  since  that  hope  denied  in  worlds  of  strife, 

Be  thou  the  rainbow  to  the  storms  of  life  ! 

The  evening  beam  that  smiles  the  clouds  away, 

And  tints  to-morrow  with  prophetic  ray  ! 

Blest— as  theMuzzin's  strain  from  Mecca's  wall 

To  pilgrims  pure  and  prostrate  at  his  call ; 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  44i 

Soft — as  the  melody  of  youthful  days, 

That  steals  the  trembling  tear  of  speechless  praise: 

Dear — as  his  native  song  to  Exile's  ears, 

Shall  sound  each  tone  thy  long-loved  voice  endears. 

For  thee  in  those  bright  isles  is  built  a  bower 

Blooming  as  Aden  (30)  in  its  earliest  hour. 

A  thousands  swords,  with  Selim's  heart  and  hand, 

^Vait  -wave— defend— destroy—  at  thy  command ! 

Girt  by  my  band,  Zuleika  at  my  side, 

The  spoil  of  nations  shall  bedeck  my  bride. 

I'he  Haram's  languid  years  of  listless  ease 

Are  well  resigned  for  cares — for  joys  like  these  : 

Not  blind  to  fate,  I  see,  where'er  I  rove, 

Unnumbered  perils — but  one  only  love  ! 

Yet  well  my  toils  shall  that  fond  breast  repay, 

Though  fortune  frown,  or  falser  friends  betray. 

How  dear  the  dream  in  darkest  hours  of  ill, 

Sliould  all  be  changed  to  find  thee  faithful  still  ! 

Be  but  thy  soul,  like  Selim's,  firmly  shown  ; 

To  thee  be  Selim's  tender  as  thine  own  ; 

To  soothe  each  sorrow,  share  in  each  delight, 

Blend  every  thought,  do  all— but  disunite  ! 

Once  free,  'tis  mine  our  horde  again  to  guide  ; 

Friends  to  each  other  foes  to  aught  beside 

Yet  there  we  follow  but  the  bent  assigned 

By  fatal  Nature  to  man's  warring  kind  ! 

Mark  !  where  his  carnage  and  his  conijuest  cease ! 

He  makes  a  solitude,  and  calls  it — peace ! 

I  like  the  rest  must  use  my  skill  or  strength. 

But  ask  no  land  beyond  my  sabre's  length  ; 

Power  sways  but  by  division— her  resource 

The  best  alternative  of  fraud  or  force  ! 

Ours  be  the  last ;     in  time  deceit  may  come 

When  cities  cage  us  in  a  social  home  ; 

There  ev'n  the  soul  might  err — how  oft  the  heart 

Corruption  shakes  which  peril  could  not  part ; 

And  woman,  more  than  man,  when  death  or  woe 

Or  even  Disgrace  would  lay  her  lover  low, 

Sunk  in  the  lap  of  luxury  will  shame — 

Away  suspicion  1 — not  Zuleika's  name  ! 

But  life  is  hazard  at  the  best ;  and  here 

No  more  remains  to  win  and  much  to  tear : 

Yes  fear  !  the  doubt  the  dread  of  losing  thee, 

By  Osman's  power,  and  Giaffir's  stern  decree. 

That  dread  shall  vanish  with  ihe  favouring  gale, 

Which  love  to-night  hath  promised  to  my  sail : 

No  longer  daunts  the  pair  his  smile  hath  blest, 

Their  steps  still  roving,  but  their  hearts  at  rest. 


442  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

'  With  thee  all  tolls  are  sweet,  each  clime  halh  charms  ; 
Earth— sea  alike — our  world  within  our  arms  ! 
Ay — let  the  loud  winds  wjiistle  o'er  the  deck, 
So  that  those  arms  cUna;  closer  round  my  neck  ; 
The  deepest  murmur  of  this  lip  shall  be 
No  sigh  for  safety,  but  a  prayer  for  thee  I 
The  war  of  elements  no  fears  impart 
To  love,  whose  deadliest  bane  is  human  art ; 
There  lie  the  only  rocks  our  course  can  check  ; 
Here  moments  menace —  there  are  years  of  wreck  ! 
But  hence  ye  thoughts  that  rise  in  Horror's  shape  ! 
This  hour  bestows,  or  ever  bars  escape. 
Few  words  remain  of  mine  my  tale  to  close  ; 
Of  thine  but  owe  to  waft  us  from  our  foes ; 
Yea — foes — to  me  will  Giaffir's  hate  decline  ? 
And  is  not  Osman  who  would  part  us,  thine  ? 

XXI. 

His  head  and  faith  from  doubt  and  death 

Returned  in  time  my  guard  to  save  ; 

Few  heard,  none  told,  that  o'er  the  wave 
From  isle  to  isle  I  rove  the  while  ; 
And  since,  though  parted  from  my  band 
Too  seldom  now  I  leave  the  land. 
No  deed  they've  done,  nor  deed  shall  do, 
Ere  I  have  heard  and  doomed  it  too  ; 
I  form  the  plan,  decree  the  spoil, 
'Tis  fit  I  oltener  sliare  the  toil. 
But  now  too  long  I've  held  thine  ear  ; 
Time  presses,  floats  my  bark,  and  here 
We  leave  behind  but  hate  and  fear. 
To-morrow  Osman  with  his  train 
Arrives — to  night  must  break  thy  chain  ; 
And  would'st  thou  save  that  haughty  Bey, 

Perchance,  his  lil'e  who  gave  thee  thine, 
AVith  me  this  hour  away — away  ! 
But  yet,  though  thou  art  plighted  mine. 
Would'st  thou  recal  thy  willing  vow, 
Appalled  by  truths  imparted  now. 
Here  rest  I — not  to  see  thee  wed  ; 
But  be  that  peril  on  mi/  head  !" 

XXII. 

Zuleika,  mute  and  motionless, 
Stood  like  that  statue  of  distress, 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  443 

When,  her  last  hope  for  ever  sone, 

The  mother  hardened  into  stone ; 

All  in  the  maid  the  eye  could  see 

Was  but  a  younger  Niobe. 

But  ere  her  lip,  or  ev'n  her  eye, 

Essayed  to  speak,  or  look  reply, 

Beneath  the  garden's  wicket  porch 

Far  flashed  on  high  a  blazing  torch  ! 

Another — and  another— and  another — 

"  Oh  fl)'— no  more— yet  now  my  more  than  brother  !" 

Far,  wide,  through  every  thicket  spread. 

The  fearful  lights  are  gleaming  red  ; 
Nor  these  alone — for  each  right  hand 

Is  ready  with  a  sheathless  brand. 

They  part,  pursue,  return,  and  wheel 

With  searching  flambeau,  shining  steel : 

And  last  of  all,  his  sabre  waving, 

Stern  Giaflir  in  his  fury  raving  : 

And  now  almost  they  touch  the  cave  ; 

O  !  must  that  grot  be  Selim's  grave  ? 

XXIII. 

Dauntless  he  stood—"  'Tis  come— soon  past- 
One  kiss  Zuleika  -'tis  my  last : 

But  yet  my  band  not  lar  from  shore 
May  hear  this  signal,  see  the  flash  ; 
Yet  now  too  few — the  attempt  were  rash  : 

No  matter  yet  one  effort  more." 
Forth  to  the  cavern  mouth  he  stept ; 

His  pistol's  echo  rang  on  high. 
Zuleika  started  not,  nor  wept, 

Despair  benumbed  lier  breast  and  eye  ! 
'<  They  hear  me  )iot,  or  if  they  ply 
Their  oars,  'tis  but  to  see  me  die  ; 
That  sound  hath  drawn  my  foes  more  nigh. 
Then  forth  my  father's  scimitar. 
Thou  ne'er  hast  seen  less  equal  war  ! 
Farewell,  Zuleika  !— Sweet !   rettre  ; 
Yet  stay  within— here  linger  safe, 
At  thee  his  rage  will  only  ciiafc 
Stir  not— lest  even  to  thee  perchance 
Some  erring  blade  or  ball  should  glance. 
Fear'st  thou  for  him  ;— may  I  expire 
If  in  this  strife  I  seek  thy  sire  ! 
No— though  by  him  that  poison  poured  ; 
]S^o — though  a^^ain  he  call  me  coward  ! 
But  lamely  shall  1  meet  theirsteel? 
No— as  each  crest  save  his  may  fe«l !" 


444  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


XXIV. 

One  bound  be  made,  and  a;!iined  the  sand  ; 

Already  at  his  feet  hath  sunk 
The  foremost  of  the  prying  band, 

A  saspiii^  head,  a  quivering  trunk  ; 
Another  falls — but  rouml  him  close 
A  swarming  circle  of  his  foes; 
From  right  to  left  his  path  he  cleft, 

And  almost  met  the  meeting  wave  : 
His  bout  appears— not  five  oars'  length — 
His  comrades  strain  with  desperate  strength-  - 

Oh  !  are  they  yet  in  time  to  save  ? 

His  feet  the  foremost  breakers  lave  5 
His  band  are  plunging  in  the  bay, 
Their  sabres  glitter  through  the  spray ; 
W'et—wild—unwearied  to  the  strand 
They  struggle— now  they  touch  the  land ! 
They  come— 'tis  but  to  add  to  slaughter— 
His  heart's  best  blood  is  on  the  water  ! 

XXV. 

Escaped  from  shot,  unarmed  by  steel, 
Or  scarcely  grazed  its  force  to  feel, 
Had  Selim  won,  betrayed,  beset. 
To  where  the  strand  and  billows  met 
There  as  his  last  step  left  the  land, 
And  the  last  death-hjow  dealt  his  hand— 
Ah !  wherefore  did  he  turn  to  look 

For  her  his  eye  but  sought  in  vain  ? 
That  pause,  that  fatal  gaze  he  took, 

Hath  doomed  his  death,  or  fixed  his  chain. 
Sad  proof,  in  peril  and  In  pain. 
How  late  will  Lover's  hope  remain  ! 
His  back  was  to  the  dashing  spray  ; 
Behind  but  close  his  comrades  lay 
^Vhen,  at  the  instant  hissed  the  ball— 
'<  So  may  ihe  foes  of  Giaffir  fall  !" 
Whose  voice  is  heard  ?  whose  carbine  rang  ? 
Whose  buUet  through  the  night  air  sang. 
Too  nearly,  deadly  aimed  to  err  ? 
'Tis  thine— Abdullah's  Murderer  ! 
The  fatiier  slowly  rued  thy  hate, 
The  son  hath  found  a  quicker  fate  : 
Fast  from  his  breast  the  blood  is  bubbling, 
The  whiteness  of  the  'cu  foam  troubling— 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  445 


If  auglit  his  lips  essayed  to  r,Toan, 
The  rushing  billoMs  choaked  the  tone  ! 


XXVI. 

Morn  slowlj-  rolls  the  clouds  away  ; 

Few  trophies  of  the  light  are  there  ; 
The  shouts  that  shook  the  midnight-bay 
Are  silent ;  but  some  signs  of  fray 

That  strand  of  strife  may  bear, 
And  fragments  of  each  shivered  brand  ; 
Steps  stamped  ;  and  dashed  into  the  sand 
The  print  of  many  a  struggling  band 
May  there  be  mr.rked  ;  nor  far  remote 
A  broken  toi-cii,  an  oarless  boat ; 
An.!  tangle^!  f;i  the  weeds  tliat  heap 
'I'he  b.^ach  where  shelving  to  the  deep 
There  lies  a  white  Capote  ! 
'Tisrent  in  twain— one  dark-red  stain 
The  wave  yet  ripples  o'er  in  vain : 

But  where  is  he  who  wore  ? 
Ve  !  who  would  o'er  his  relics  weep 
Go,  seek  them  where  the  surges  sweep 
Their  burthen  round  Sigaeum's  steep 

And  cast  on  Lemnos'  shore  : 
The  sea-birds  shriek  above  the  the  prey, 
O'er  which  their  hungry  beaks  delay, 
As  shaken  on  his  restless  pillow, 
His  head  heaves  with  the  heaving  billoW  ; 
Tliat  hand,  wLiose  motion  is  not  life, 
Yet  feebly  seems  to  menace  strife, 
Flung  by  the  tossing  tide  on  high, 
Tfien  levelled  with  the  wave-  - 
What  recks  it,  lliough  that  corse  shaiUie 

Within  a  living  grave  ! 
The  bird  that  tears  that  prostrate  form 
Hath  only  robbed  the  meaner  worm  ; 
The  only  heart,  the  only  eye 
Had  bled  or  wept  to  see  him  die. 
Had  seen  those  scattered  limbs  composed, 

And  mourned  above  his  turban-stone,  (40) 
That  heart  hath  burst — that  eye  was  closed — 
Yea— closed  before  his  own  ! 

XXVII. 

By  Helle's  stream  there  is  a  voice  of  wail ! 
And  woman's  eye  is  wet — man's  cheek  is  pale  5 
Zuleika  !  hist  of  Giaffir's  race, 

2  P 


416  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

Tiiy  destined  lonl  is  come  too  late: 
Ilti  sees  not— ne'er  shiiU  see  thy  face  ! 

Can  he  not  lieur 
The  loud  Wul-wuUeh  (11)  warn  his  distant  ear  ? 

Tliy  handmaids  weepintr  at  the  pate, 
The  Koran-cliannters  of  the  hymn  of  fate, 

The  silent  slaves  wi^h  folded  arms  that  wait, 
Si2,hs  in  the  hall,  and  shrieks  upon  the  gale. 

Tell  him  thy  tale! 
Thnn  didst  not  view  thy  Selim  fall  I 

That  fearful  moment  when  he  left  the  cave 
Thy  heart  grew  chill : 
ile  was  thy  hope— thy  joy— thy  love— thine  all — 

And  that  last  thonQ;lit  on  him  thou  could'st  not  save 
Sufficed  to  kill; 
Burst  forth  in  one  wild  cry— and  all  was  still. 

Peace  to  thy  broken  heart,  and  virgin  grave  ! 
Ah  !   happy  !  but  of  life  to  lose  the  worst ' 
Tliat  grief — though  deep — though  fatal— was  thy  firs,t  ! 
Thrice  happy  !  ne'er  to  feel  nor  fear  the  force 
Of  absence,  shame,  pride,  hate,  revenge,  remorse  ! 
And,  oh  !  that  pang  where  more  than  Madness  lies  ! 
The  worm  that  will  ne-t  sleej)— and  never  dies  ; 
'J'hought  of  the  gloomy  day  and  gliastly  night, 
That  dreads  the  darkness,  and  yet  loathes  the  light, 
That  winds  around,  and  tears  the  qniv'ring  heart! 
Ah  !  wherefore  not  consume  it — and  depart. 

Woe  to  thee,  rash  and  unrelenting  chief ! 

Vainly  thou  heap'st  the  dust  upon  thy  head, 
"    A'ainly  the  sackcloth  o'er  thy  limbs  dost  spread  : 

"By  that  same  hand  Abdallah  -Selim  bled. 
Ko\T  let  it  tear  thy  beard  in  idle  grief: 
'I'hy  pride  of  heart,  thy  bride  for  Osman's  bed,. 
She,  whom  thy  sultan  had  l)utseen  to  wed. 
Thy  Daughter's  dead  ! 

Hope  of  thine  age,  thy  twilight's  lonely  beam  ; 

The  Star  hath  set  that  shone  on  Helle's  stream. 
What  quenched  its  ray  ?— the  blood  that  thou  hast  shed  ^ 
Hark  !   to  the  hurried  question  of  Despair  : 
"  Where  is  my  child?"  an  Echo  answers—"  Where  ?"  (42) 

XXVIII. 

Within  tiie  place  of  thousand  tombs 

That  t>hine  beneath,  while  dark  above 
The  sad  but  living  cypress  glooms 

And  withers  not,  though  branch  and  leaf 


'  THE  BIUDE  OF  ABYDOS.  H: 

Are  stamiied  witli  an  eternal  p;rief, 

Like  early  unrequited  Love, 
One  spot  exists,  wliichever  blooms, 

Ev'ii  ill  that  deadly  Ecrove — 
A  single  rose  is  slieddiiiLf  there 

It's  lonely  lustre,  meek  and  pale  : 
It  looks  as  planted  by  Despair — 

So  white — so  faint — the  slightest  gale 
Slig'ht  wiiirl  the  leaves  on  high  ; 

And  yet  though  storms  ami  blight  assail, 
And  hands  more  rude  llian  wintry  sl:y 

rilay  wring  it  from  the  stem — in  vain  — 

To-morrovV  sees  it  bloom  again  ! 

I'he  stalk  some  spirit  gently  rears, 

And  waters  with  celestial  tears  ; 
For  well  may  maids  of  Helle  deem 

That  this  can  be  no  earthly  flower, 

Which  mocks  the  tempest's  withering  hour. 

And  buds  unsheltered  by  a  bower  ; 

Nor  droops,  though  spring  refuse  her  shower,. 
Nor  wcos  the  summer  beam  : 
To  it  the  livelong  night  there  sings 

A  bird  unseen — but  not  remote  : 
Invisible  his  airy  wings. 
But  soft  as  harp  that  Houri  strings. 

His  long  entrancing  note  ! 
It  were  theBulbul  ;  but  his  throat. 

Though  mournful  poars  notsuch  a  strain  : 
For  they  who  listen  cannot  leave 
The  spot,  but  linger  there  and  grieve 

As  if  they  loved  in  vain  ! 
And  yet  so  sweet  the  tears  they  shed, 

'Tis  sorrow  so  unmixed  with  dread, 
They  scarce  can  bear  tlie  morn  to  break 

That  melancholy  spell. 
And  longer  yet  would  weep  and  wake, 

He  sings  so  wild  and  well  ! 
But  when  the  day-blush  bursts  from  high 

Expires  that  magic  melody. 
And  some  have  been  who  could  believe 
(So  fondly  youthful  dreams  deceive, 

Yet  harsh  be  they  that  blame) 

hat  note  so  piercing  and  profound 
Will  shape  and  syllable  it  sound 

Into  Zuleika's  name.  (43) 
'Tis  from  her  cypress'  summit  heard. 
That  melts  in  air  the  li(iuid  word  : 
'Tis  from  her  lowly  virgin  earth 


448  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

That  while  rose  takes  ils  tender  birth. 
There  hite  was  laid  a  marble  stone  ; 

Eve  saw  it  placed — the  Morrow  gone  ! 
It  was  no  mortal  arm  that  bore 
That  deep-fixed  pillar  to  the  shore  ; 
For  there,  as  Helle's  legends  tell  ; 
Next  morn  'twas  foimd  where  Selim  fell ; 
Lashed  by  the  tumbling  tide,  whose  wave 
Denied  his  bones  a  holier  grave  : 
And  tliere  by  night,  reclined,  Mis  said. 
Is  seen  a  ghastly  turbaned  head  : 
And  hence  extended  by  the  billow, 
'Tis  named  (he  "  Pirate-phantom's  pillow  I" 
Where  first  it  lay  that  mourning  flower 
Hath  flourished  ;  flourishelh  this  hour, 
Alone  and  dewy,  coldly  pure  and  pale  ? 
As  weeping  Beaufy's  clltek  at  Sorrow's  tale! 


NOTES 

TO    THE 

BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS, 

(1.) 

/Fax  faint  o'er  the  g<ii\!c/is  of  Qui  in  her  bloom. 
"  Gul,"  the  rose. 

(2.) 
Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children  have  done. 
"  So\ils  mtide  of  fire,  and  children  of  the  Sun, 
"  With  whom  Revenge  is  Virtue." 

Young's  Revenge. 

(3.) 
fnth  Mejnoun's  tale,  or  Sadi's  song: 
Mejnoun  and  Leihi,  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  of  the  East.   Sadi, 
the  moral  poet  of  Persia. 

(4.) 
Tilt  I,  who  heard  the  deep  tambour. 
Tambour,  Turkish  drum,  which  sounds  at  sunrise,  noou  and 
twilight. 

(5.) 
He  is  an  Arab  to  my  sight. 
The  Turks  abhor  the  Arabs  (who  return  the  compliment  a 
hundred  fold)  even  more  than  they  hate  the  Christians. 

(6.) 

The  mind,  the  Music  breathing  from  her  face. 

This  expression  has  met  with  objections.     I  will  not  refer  to 

'<  Him  who  hath  not  Music   in  his  soul,"  but  merely  re(juest 

the  reader  to  recollect,  for  ten  seconds,  the   features  of  the 

woman  whom  lie  believes  to  be  the  most  beautiful ;  and  if  ho 

'-  2  1'  - 


450  NOTES    TO    THE    BRIDE    OF    ABVDGS. 

then  does  not  conipieheiul  fully  what  is  feebly  expre^set!  in  the 
above  line,  I  shall  be  sorry  for  us  both.  For  an  eloquent  pas- 
s-dge  in  the  latest  work  of  the  first  female  writer  of  this,  perhaps, 
oi  any  age,  on  the  analogy  (and  the  immediate  comparison 
excited  by  that  analogy)  between  "painting  and  music,"  see 
vol.  iii.  cap.  10.  De  L'Alle.magne.  And  is  not  this  connexion 
still  stronger  with  the  original  than  the  copy?  With  the  colour- 
ing of  Nature  than  of  Art  ?  After  all,  this  is  rather  to  be  felt 
than  described;  still  I  think  there  are  some  who  will  understand 
it,  at  least  they  would  have  done  had  they' beheld  the  coun- 
tenance whose  speaking  harmony  suggested  the  idea  :  for 
this  passage  is  not  drawn  from  imagination  but  memory,  that 
mirror  whicli  Affliction  dashes  to  the  earth,  and  looking  down 
npon  the  fragments,  only  beholds  the  reflection  multipiied  ! 

But  yet  the  line  of  Carasman- 

Carasman  Oglou,  or  Kara  Osmoji  Oglou,  is  the  principal 
landholder  in  Turkey,  he  governs  Magnesia  ;  those  who,  by  a 
kind  of  feudal  tenure,  possess  land  on  condition  of  service,  are 
callt'd  Timariols:  they  serve  as  Spahis,  according  to  the  extent 
of  tenitary,  and  bring  a  certain  number  into  the  field,  gene- 
rally cavalry. 

(S.) 
^nd  teach  the  messenger  what  fate. 

Wlien  a  Pacha  is  sufficiently  strong  to  resist,  the  single  mes- 
senger, who  is  alwajs  the  first  bearer  of  the  order  for  his  death 
is  strangled  instead,  and  sometimes  five  or  six,  one  after  the 
other,  on  the  same  errand,  by  command  of  the  refractory 
patient ;  if,  on  the  contrary,  lie  is  weak  or  lo}  al,  he  bows, 
kisses  the  Sultan's  respectable  signature,  and  is  bow  .strung  with 
great  comphicency.  Jn  1810,  several  of  these  presents  were 
exhibited  in  the  niche  of  the  Seraglio  gate  ;  among  others,  the 
liead  of  the  Pacha  of  Eagdat,  a  brave  young  man,  cut  olf  by 
treachery,  after  a  desperate  resistance. 

(9.) 
Thrice  chipped  his  hamls,  and  called  his  steed. 
Clapping  of  the  hands  calls  the  servants.     The  Turks  hate  a 
superlluous  expenditure  of  voice,  and  they  have  no  bells. 

(10.) 

Resigned  his  gem-adorned  Chibour/iie. 

Chibouque,  rhe  Tmkish  pipe,  of  which  the  amber  mouth- 
piece, and  sometimes  the  ball  which  contains  the  leaf,  is  adorn- 
ed with  precious  stones,  if  in  possession  of  the  wealthier  orders. 


KOTES    TO    THE    BRIDE    OK    ABVDOS.  4*1 

(11.) 

JVith  Maugrabee  and  Mamaluke. 

Mangrabee,  Moorish  mercenaries. 

(12.) 

His  way  amid  his  Delis  took. 

Deli,  bravos  who  form  the  forloni  hope  ol"  the  cavalrj',  and 
always  begin  the  action. 

(13.) 

Careering  cleave  the  folded  felt. 

A  twisted  fold  oi  felt  is  used  for  scimilar  practice  by  the 
Turlvs,  and  few  but  Mussulman  arms  can  cut  through  it  at  a 
single  stroke  :  sometimes  a  tough  turban  is  used  for  the  same 
purpose.  The  jerreed  is  a  game  of  blunt  javelins,  animated 
and  graceful. 

(14.) 

Nor  heard  their  Ollahs  xvild  a?id  loud — 

<'  Ollahs,"  Alia  il  Aliali,  the  "  Leilies,-'  as  the  Spanish 
poets  Call  them,  the  sound  is  Oliah;  a  ci y  of  wliich  the  Turks 
for  a  silent  people,  are  somewhat  profuse,  particularly  during 
the  jerreed,  or  in  the  chase,  but  mostly  in  battle.  Their  ani- 
mation in  the  field,  and  gravity  in  the  chamber,  with  thi-irpipes 
and  comboloios,  form  an  amusing  contrast. 

(15.) 

The  Persian  Atur-  guV  s  per  fume. 

"  Atar-gul,"  ottar  of  roses.     Tlie  Persian  is  the  finest, 

(Id.) 

The  pictured  roof  and  tnarble  floor. 

The  ceiling  and  wainscots,  or  rather  walls  of  the  Mussul- 
man apartments  are  generally  painted,  in  p:reat  houses,  with 
oneeternalandhighlycoloured  view  of  Constantinople,  wherein 
the  principal  feature  is  a  nolile  contempt  of  jx-rspective  ;  below 
arms,  scimitars,  ikc.  are  in  general  fanciliilly  and  not  inele- 
gantly disposed. 

(!') 
A  message  from  the  Bulbtd  bears. 

It  has  been  much  doubted  whether  the  notes  of  (his  "  Lo- 
ver of  tlie  rose,"  are  sad  or  merry ;  and  Mr.  Fox's  remarks 
on  the  subject  have  provoked  some  learned  controversy  as  to 
the  opinions  of  the  ancients  on  the  subject.  I  dare  not  venture 
a  conjecture  on  the  point,  tliough  a  little  inclined  to  the  <'  er- 
rare  mailt  m,"  ifec.  if  Mr.  Fox  was  mistaken. 


452  NOTES    TO    THE    EHIDE    OF    ABYDOS. 

(18) 

Even  ^4zracl,from  his  dcadlt/  quiver. 
"  Azrael" — the  angel  ol'  dealL. 

(19) 
Jl'iihin  the  caves  of  Isiakar. 

'    The  treasures  of  the  Pi eadaniile  Sultiins.  See  D'IIjsrdelot, 
article  Isfakar. 

(20; 

Holds  not  a  Ulussc/im^s  control 

Mu«selini,  a  g\)venior,  the  next  in  rank  alter  a  PacLa  ;  a 
\A'aywoi.le  is  the  thin!  ;  and  then  conies  the  Agas. 

(21) 

fVas  he  not  bred  in  Egripo- 

Egripo  -the  Negropont.  According  to  the  proverh,  the 
Turks  of  Egripo,  the  Jews  of  Saloiiica,  and  the  L> reeks  of 
Athens,  are  the  worst  of  their  respective  races. 

(22) 

Ah  !  yonder  see  the  Tchocadur- 

"  Tchocadar" — one  of  the  attemlanls  who  precede  a  man 
of  authority. 

(2.-5) 

Thine  own  "■  broad  Hellespont  still  dashes. 

The  wrangling  about  this  epithet  "  the  broad  Hellespont" 
or  the  "  boundless  Hellespoirl,"  whether  it  nieaus  one  or  the 
Other,  or  what  it  means  at  all,  has  been  beyonil  all  possibility 
of  det.ul.  I  have  even  heard  it  disputed  on  the  spot  ;  and  not 
foreseeing  a  speedy  conclusion  to  the  controversy,  amused 
myself  with  swimming  across  it  in  the  mean  time,  and  pro- 
bably may  again,  before  the  point  is  settled.  Indeetl  the  ques- 
tion as  to  the  truth  of  "the  tale  of  Troy  divine"  still  conti- 
nues, much  of  it  rests  upon  the  talismanic  word  "  cfrru^oq  : 
probably  Homer  Lail  the  same  notion  of  distance  that  a  co- 
'  (piette  has  of  time,  and  when  he  talks  of  boundless,  means 
half  a  mile;  as  the  latter,  by  a  like  figure,  when  she  says 
iternal  attachment,  simply  specities  three  weeks. 

(24) 

IFhich  yt?ninon's  son  ran  proudly  round. 

Before  his  Persian  invasion,  and  crowned  the  altar  with 
1  lurel,  (fee.  He  was  afterwards  imitated  by  Caracalla  in  his 
race.  It  is  believed  that  the  last  also  poisoned  a  friend,  named 
Festus,  for  the  sake  of  new   Patioclan  games.     I  have  seen 


NOT£S    TO    THE    BfilDE    OT    ABVDOS.  'iii'.i 

the  sheep  feeding  on  the  tombs  of  ^sietes  ami  Antilochiis  ; 
the  first  is  in  the  centre  of  the  ijlaiii. 

(25) 
O'er  which  her  fairy  fingers  ratu 
\Vhen  ruhbeil,  the  amber  is  susceptible  of  a  perfume,  which 
is  slight  but  not  disagreeable. 

(26) 

Her  mother's  sainted  amulet. 

The  belief  m  amulets  engraved  on  gems,  or  enclosed  in  gold 
boxes,  containing  scraps  from  the  Koran,  worn  round  the  neck, 
wrist,  or  arm,  is  still  universal  in  the  East.  The  Koorsee 
(throne)  verse  in  the  second  cap.  of  the  Koran  describes  the 
attributes  of  the  Most  High,  ami  is  engraveil  in  this  manner, 
and  worn  by  the  pious,  as  the  most  esteemed  and  sublime  of 
all  sentences. 

(27) 

j4n(l  hy  Iier  Comloloio  lies. 

"  Comboloio" — a  Turkish  rosarj'.  The  MSS.  particularly 
those  of  tlie  Persians,  are  richly  mtorned  and  illuminated.  The 
Greek  females  are  kept  in  atter  ignorance  ;  but  many  of  the 
Turkish  girls  are  highly  accomplished,  though  not  actually 
qualified  for  a  Christian  coterie  ;  perhaps  some  of  our  own 
"  blues,"  might  not  be  the  worse  for  bleaching. 

(28) 

In  him  was  some  young  Galiongie 

"  Galiongee— or    (Jaliongi,    a   sailor,    that    is    a    Turlcish 

sailor;  the  Greeks  navigate,  the  Turks  work  the   guns. 

Their  dress  is  picturesque ;  and  I  have  seen  the  Capitati 
Pacha  more  than  once  wearing  it  as  a  kind  of  incog.  Their 
legs  however,  are  generally  naked.  The  buskins  described 
in  the  text  as  sheathed  behind  with  silver,  are  tliose  of  au 
Arnaut  robber,  whi  was  my  host  (he  had  quitted  the  profession) 
at  his  Pyrgo,  near  (iasloimi  in  the  Morea  •,  they  were  i)lated  in 
scales  one  over  the  other,  like  the  back  of  an  armadillo. 

(2ff) 
So  may  the  Koran  verse   displayed. 

The  characters  on  all  Turkish  scimitars  contain  sometimes 
the  name  of  the  place  of  their  manufacture,  but  more  gene- 
rally a  text  from  the  Koran  in  letters  of  gokl.  Amongst  ttiose 
in  n)y  possession  is  one  with  a  blade  of  singular  construction  ; 
it  is  very  broad.,  and  tlie  edge  notched  into  serpentine  ciuvts 
like  the  ripple  of  water,  or  the  wavering  of  llanie.  I  asked 
the  Armenian  wl;o  sold  il,   what  possible  use   -ui'li  a  figure 


454  NOTES   TO    THn   BRIDE    OF    ABYDOS. 

coiilil  add  ;  he  said,  in  Italian,  that  he  did  not  know  ;  but  the 
Mussulmans  had  an  idea  thai  those  of  this  form  gave  a  severer 
wound,  and  liked  it  because  it  was  "  piu  feroce."  I  did  not 
much  ndiiiire  the  reason,  but  bought  it  ior  its  peculiarity. 

(30) 

rSid  like  the  nephew  of  a  Cain. 

It  is  to  be  observed,  that  every  allusion  to  any  thing  or 
personage  in  the  Old  Testament,  such  as  the  Ark  or  Cain, 
is  equally  the  privilege  of  Mussulman  and  Jew  ;  indeed  the 
former  profess  to  be  much  better  acquainted  with  the  lives, 
true  and  fabulous,  of  the  patriarchs,  than  is  warranted  by  our 
own  Sacred  writ,  and  nol  content  with  Adam,  they  have  a 
biography  of  Pre- Adamites.  Solomon  is  tlie  monarch  of  all 
necromancy,  and  ]\foses  a  prophet  inferior  only  to  Christ  and 
Mahomet.  Zuleika  is  the  Persian  name  of  Potiphar's  wife, 
and  her  amour  with  Joseph  constitutes  one  of  the  finest  poems 
in  their  {language.  It  is,  therefore,  no  violation  of  costume 
1o  put  the  names  of  Cain,  or  Noah,  iuto  the  mouth  of  a 
Moslem. 

(31) 
Atid  Paswan's  rebel /iO)-(les  attest. 

Paswan  Oglou,  the  rebel  of  Widin,  who  for  the  last  years 
of  his  life  set  the  whole  power  of  the  Porte  at  defiance. 

(32) 
T/tey  gave  their  horsetails  to  the  u-inih 

Horsetails,  the  standard  of  a  Pacha. 

(33) 

He  drank  one  draught,  nor  needed  more  I 

Giafilr,  Pacha  of  Argyro  Castro,  or  Sjutari,  lam  not  sure 
which,  was  actually  taken  oil"  by  the  Albanian  Ali,  in  the 
manner  described  in  the  text.  Ali  Pacha,  while  I  was  in  the 
country,  married  the  daughter  of  his  victim,  some  years  after 
the  event  had  taken  place  at  a  bath  in  Sophia,  or  Adrianople. 
The  poison  wiis  mixed  in  the  cup  of  collee,  which  was  pre- 
sented before   the  sherbet  by  the  bath-keeper,  after  dressing. 

(31) 

I  sought  hy  turns,  and  saw  them  all. 

The  Turkish  notions  of  almost  all  islands  are  confined  to  the 
Archipelago,  the  sea  alluded  to. 

(3.3) 
The  last  of  Lumbi-o's  patriots  there. 

Lambro  Cauzani,  a  Greek,  famous  for  his  efforts  in  17S9-90 
for  the  independence  of  his  coujifry  :  abandoned  by  the  Russias 


f  NOTES  TO  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  4.>./ 

he  became  a  i)inite,  ami  the  Archiiielago  was  the  scene  of  bis 
enterprizes.  lie  is  said  to  be  still  alive  at  Petersburgh.  He 
and  Riga  are  the  two  most  celebrated  of  the  Greek  Revolu- 
tionists. 

(36) 

To  snatch  tlie  Rayahs  from  their  fate. 
"  Rayahs,"  all  who  \niy  the  capitation  tax,  called  the  "  Ha- 
rntch." 

(37) 

A(f !  let  me  like  the  ocean-Patriurch  roam. 
This  first  of  voyages  is  one  of  the  few  with  which  the  Mus- 
mniis  profess  much  acquaintance. 

(38) 
Or  only  know  on  land  the  Tartar'' s  home. 

Tlie  wandering  life  of  the  Arabs,  Tartars,  and  Turkomans, 
will  be  found  well  detailed  in  any  book  of  Kavtern  travels. 
That  it  possesses  a  charm  peculiar  to  itself  cannot  be  denied. 
A  young  French  renegado  confessed  to  Chateai.briand,  that 
he  never  founnl  himself  alone  galloping  in  the  desart,  without 
a  sensation  approaciiing  to  rapture,  which  was  indescribable. 

(3.9) 

Bloomuig  as  yJden  in  its  earliest  hour. 
"  Jannat  al  Aden,"  the   perpetual   abode,    the    Mussulman 
Paradise. 

(40) 

And  mourned  alvve  his  turban  stone. 
A  turban  is  carved  in  stone  above  the  graves  of  men  only. 

(41) 
The  lo/id  /I'lil-u'ulleh   warn  his  distant  ear. 
The  death-song  of  the  Turkish  women     The  "silent  slaves" 
are  the  men    whose  notions  of   decorum  forbid   complaint  in 
public. 

(42) 

"  ffhere  is  my  child?"-  an  Echo  ansivcrs—"  fVhere  ?" 

"  I  came  to  the  jilace  of  my  birth  and  cried.  '  The  friends 
"of  my  youth  where  are  they?'  and  an  Echo  answered, 
"  '  Where  are  Iht-y  ?'  " 

Frojn  an  Arabic  MS. 

The  above  quotation  (from  which  the  idea  in  the  text  is 
taken)  must  be  alreadv  iamiliar  to  every  reader— it  is  given  in 
the  first  annotation,  page  67  of  "The  Pleasines  of  Memory" 
a  poem  so  well  known  as  to  render  a  reference  almost  super- 
fluous :  but  to  wliose  pages  all  will  feel  delighted  to  recur. 


4,',ti  NOTES  TO  THE  CRIDK  OF  ABYDOS. 

(43) 

Into  Zuleika'ii  nnme. 

"  Aud  airy  tongues  that  sylUible  men's  names." 

Milton. 

'■'or  a  belief  that  the  souls  of  the  dead  inhabit  the  form  of 
birds,  we  need  not  travel  to  the  East.  Lord  Lyttleton's  ghost 
story,  the  belief  of  the  Duchess  of  Kendal,  that  George  the 
First  Hew  into  her  window  in  the  shape  of  a  raven  (see  Or- 
lorJ's  Reminiscences,)  and  many  other  instances,  bring  the 
superstition  nearer  home.  The  most  singular  was  the  whim 
of  a  Worcester  lady,  wiio  believing  her  daughter  to  exist  in 
llie  shape  of  a  singing-bird,  literally  furnished  her  pew  in  the 
C'aHiedral  with  cages-full  of  the  kind  ;  and  as  she  was  rich, 
and  a  benefactress  in  beautifying  the  church,  no  objection  was 
made  to  her  harmless  lolly.— For  this  anecdete,  see  Orford's 
Letters. 


E\D    OF    THB    CRIDE    OF    ABYDOS. 


DEDICATION    TO    THE 

SIEGE  OF   CORINTH. 


TO 

JOHN  HOBHOUSE,    ESQ. 

THIS    POEM    IS   INSCRIBED 
BY     HIS 


FRIEND. 
Jan.  22,  1816. 


2Q 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


"  The  grand  army  of  the  Turks  (in  1715),  unJer  the  Prime 
Vizier,  to  open  themselves  a  way  into  the  heart  of  the  Moreii, 
and  to  form  the  siege  of  Napoli  di  Romania,  the  most  conside- 
rable place  in  all  that  countr.v*,  thought  it  best  in  the  first 
place  to  attack  Corinth,  upon  which  they  made  several  storms. 
The  garri.'-on  being  weakened,  antl  the  governor  seeing  it  was 
impossible  to  hold  out  against  so  mighty  a  force  thought  fit 
to  beat  a  parley :  but  while  they  were  treating  about  the 
articles,  one  of  the  magazine  in  the  Turkish  camp,  wherein  they 
had  six  hundred  barrels  of  powder,  blew  up  by  accident, 
whereby  six  or  seven  hundred  men  were  killed :  which  so 
enraged  the  infidels,  that  they  would  not  grant  any  capitulation, 
but  stormed  the  place  with  so  much  fury,  that  they  took  it, 
and  put  most  of  the  garrison,  with  Signior  Minotti,  the  gover- 
nor, to  the  sword.  The  rest,  with  Antonio  iJembo,  proveditor 
extraordinary,  were  made  prisoners  of  war." 

History  of  the  Turks,  vol.  iii.  p.  151. 


•  Napoli  di  Romania  is  not  now  the  most  considerable  place 
in  the  JNIorea,  but  Tripolitza,  where  tlie  Pacha  resides,  and 
mantains  his  goverment.  Napoli  is  near  Argos.  I  visited  all 
three  in  1810-11  :  and  in  the  course  of  journeying  [through 
the  country  from  my  first  arrival  in  1809,  I  crossed  the  Isthmus 
eight  times  in  my  way  from  Attica  to  the  Morea,  over  the 
mountains,  or  in  the  other  direction,  when  passing  from  the 
Gulf  of  Athens  to  that  of  Lepanto.  Both  the  routes  are 
picturesque  and  beautiful,  though  very  different :  that  by  sea 
has  more  sameness,  but  the  voyage  being  always  within  sight 
of  land,  and  often  very  near  it  presents,  many  attractive  views 
of  ilie  islands  Salamis,  ^gina,  Poro,  «i:c.  and  the  coast  of  the 
continent. 


THE 


^itg^c  a)f  Covintt). 


"  Guns,  Trumpets,  Blunderbusses,  Drums,  and  Thunder." 


Many  a  vanished  )'ear  and  age, 

And  tempest's  breath,  and  battle's  rage. 

Have  swept  o'er  Corinth  ;  yet  she  stands 

A  fortress  formed  to  Freedom's  hands. 

The  whirlwind's  wrath,  the  earthquake's  shock, 

Have  left  untouched  her  hoarj-  rock. 

The  kejstone  of  a  land,  which  still, 

Though  fall'n,  looks  proudly  on  that  bill, 

The  land-mark  to  the  double  tide 

That  purpling  rolls  on  either  side, 

As  if  their  waters  chafed  to  meet, 

Yet  pause  and  crouch  beneath  her  feet. 

But  could  tlie  blood  before  her  shed 

Since  first  Timoleon's  brother  bled. 

Or  baffled  Persia's  despot  fled, 

Arise  from  out  the  eartli  which  drank 

The  stream  of  slaughter  as  it  sank 

That  sanguine  ocean  would  o'erflow 

Her  isthmus  idly  spread  below  : 

Or  could  the  bones  of  all  the  slain, 

Who  perished  there,  be  piled  again. 


460  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

That  rival  pyramid  would  rise 

More  niounUiiii-iike,  through  those  clear  skies, 

Than  yon  tower-capt  Acropolis, 

Which  seems  the  very  clouds  to  kiss. 

II. 

On  dun  Cilhaeron's  ridge  appears 
The  gleam  of  twice  ten  thousand  spears  ; 
And  downward  to  the  Isthmian  plain 
From  shore  to  shore  of  either  main, 
The  tent  is  pitched,  the  crescent  shines 
Along  the  Moslem's  leaguering  lines ; 
And  the  dusk  Spahi's  bands  advance 
Benealh  each  bearded  Pacha's  glance  ;    ^ 
And  far  and  wide  as  eye  can  reach 
The  turban'd  cohorts  throng  the  beach  ; 
And  there  the  Arab's  camel  kneels. 
And  there  his  steed  the  Tartar  wheels, 
The  Turcoman  halh  left  his  herd,  (1) 
The  sabre  round  his  loiiis  to  gird  ; 
And  there  the  volleying  thunders  pour, 
Till  waves  grow  smoother  to  the  roar. 
The  trench  is  dug,  the  cannon's  breath 
VVings  the  far  hissing  globe  of  death  ; 
Fast  whirl  the  fragments  from  the  wall. 
Which  crumbles  with  the  ponderous  ball ; 
And  from  that  wall  the  foe  replies, 
O'er  dusty  plain  and  smoky  skies. 
With  fires  that  answer  last  and  well 
The  summons  of  the  Infidel. 

III. 

But  near  and  nearest  to  the  wall 
Of  those  who  wish  and  and  work  its  fall, 
A\'ith  deejier  skill  in  war's  black  art 
Than  Otiiman's  sous,  and  high  of  heart 
As  any  chief  that  ever  stood 
Triumphant  in  the  fields  of  blood; 
From  post  to  post,  and  deed  to  deed. 
Fast  spurring  on  his  reeking  steed, 
Where  sallying  ranks  the  trench  assail, 
And  make  the  foremost  Moslem  quail  ; 
Or  where  the  battery  guarded  well. 
Remains  as  yet  impregnable, 
Alighting  cheerly  to  inspire 
The  soldier  slackening  in  his  fire  ; 


/  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH.  401 

The  first  and  freshest  of  the  host 
Which  Stamboul's  sullan  there  can  boast, 
To  guide  the  follower  o'er  the  field, 
To  point  the  tube,  the  lance  to  wield, 
Or  whirl  around  the  bickering  blade  ; — 
Was  Alp,  the  Adrian  renegade  ! 

IV. 

From  Venice — once  a  race  of  worth 

His  gentle  sires — he  drew  his  birth  ; 

But  late  an  exile  from  her  shore, 

Against  his  countrymen  he  bore 

Tiie  arms  they  taught  to  bear  ;  and  now 

The  turban  girt  his  shaven  brow. 

Through  many  a"change  had  Corinth  passed 

With  Greece  to  Venice'  rule  at  last ; 

And  here,  before  her  walls,  with  those 

To  Greece  and  Venice  equal  foes. 

He  stood  a  foe,  ,with  all  the  zeal 

Which  young  mid  fiery  converts  feel. 

Within  whose  heated  bosom  throngs 

The  memory  of  a  thousand  wrongs. 

To  him  bad  Venice  ceased  to  be 

Her  ancient  civic  boast—"  the  Free  5" 

And  in  the  palace  of  St.  Mark 

Unnamed  accusers  in  the  dark 

Within  the  "  Lion's  month"  had  placed 

A  charge  against  him  uneftaced: 

Ho  fled  in  time,  and  saved  his  life. 

To  waste  bis  luture  years  in  strife, 

That  taught  his  land  bow  great  her  loss 

In  bim  who  triumphed  o'er  the  Cross, 

'Gainst  which  he  reared  the  Crescent  high, 

And  battled  to  avenge  or  die. 


Coumourgi  (2) — he  whose  closing  scene 
Adorned  the  triumph  of  Eugene, 
When  on  Carlowitz'  bloody  plain 
The  last  and  mightiest  of  the  slain 
He  sank,  ri'gretting  not  to  die, 
But  curst  the  Christian's  victory — 
Coumourgi— can  his  glory  cease. 
That  latest  conqueror  ol  Greece, 
Till  Christian  hands  to  Greece  restore 
The  freedom  Venice  gave  of  yore  ? 
2Q2 


46i  THE  SIEGE  OF    CORINTH, 

A  hundred  years  have  rolled  away, 
Since  h(^  refixed  the  Moslem's  sway  : 
And  now  he  led  the  Mussulman, 
And  gave  the  guidance  of  the  van 
To  Alp,  who  well  repaid  the  trust 
By  cities  levelled  with  the  dust  ; 
And  proved,  by  many  a  deed  of  death, 
How  firm  his  heart  in  novel  faith. 

VI. 

The  walls  grow  weak  ;  and  fast  and  hot 

Against  them  poured  the  ceaseless  shot, 

VVith  unabating  fury  sent 

From  battery  to  battlement, 

And  thunder  like  the  pealing  din 

Rose  from  each  heated  culverin ; 

And  here  and  there  some  crackling  dome 

Was  fired  before  the  exploding  bomb  : 

And  as  the  fabric  sank  beneath 

The  shattering  shell's  volcanic  breath, 

Tti  red  and  wreathing  columns  flashed 

The  flame,  as  loud  the  ruin  crashed, 

Or  into  countless  meteors  driven. 

Its  ear^h-stars  melted  into  heaven  ; 

Whose  clouds  that  day  grew  doubly  dun. 

Impervious  to  the  hidden  sun. 

With  vohmied  siiioke  that  slowly  grew 

To  one  wide  sky  of  sulphurous  hue. 

VII. 

But  not  for  vengeance,  long  delayed, 

Alone,  did  Alp,  the  renegade, 

The  Moslem  warriors  sternly  teach 

His  skill  to  pierce  the  promised  breach  : 

Within  these  walls  a  maid  was  pent 

His  hope  would  win,  without  consent 

Of  that  inexorable  sire, 

Whose  heart  refused  him  in  its  ire. 

When  Alp,  beneath  his  Christian  name, 

Her  virgin  hand  aspired  to  claim. 

In  happier  mood,  and  earlier  time, 

AVhile  unimpeached  for  traitorous  crime. 

Gayest  in  gondola  or  hall. 

He  gliUereil  tluough  the  Carnival^ 

And  tuned  the  softest  serenade 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH.  468 

That  e'er  on  Adria's  waters  played 
At  midnight  to  Italian  maid. 

VIII. 

And  many  deemed  her  heart  was  won  ; 

For  sought  by  numbers,  given  to  none, 

Had  young  Francesca's  hand  remained 

Still  by  the  church's  bond  unchained : 

And  when  the  Adriatic  bore 

Lanciotlo  to  the  Paynira  ihore, 

Her  wonted  smiles  were  seen  to  fail, 

And  pensive  waxed  the  maid  and  pals  ; 

More  coi\stant  at  confessional. 

More  rare  at  masque  and  festival ; 

Or  seen  at  such,  with  downcast  eyes, 

Which  conquered  hearts  they  ceased  to  prize  : 

With  listless  loolv  siie  seemed  to  gaze  ; 

With  humbler  care  her  form  arrays  ; 

Her  voice  less  lively  in  the  song ; 

Her  step,  though  light,  less  fleet  among 

The  pairs,  on  whom  the  Morning's  glance 

Breaks,  yet  unsated  with  the  dance. 

IX. 

Sent  by  the  State  to  guard  the  land 

( Which,  wrested  from  the  Moslem's  hand, 

Wliile  Sobieski  tamed  his  pride 

By  Buda's  wall  and  Danube's  side. 

The  chiefs  of  Venice  wrung  away 

From  Patra  to  Eiiboea's  bay,) 

Minotti  held  in  Corinth's  towers 

The  Doge's  delegated  powers, 

While  yet  the  pitying  eye  of  Peace 

Smiled  o'er  her  long  forgotten  Greece  : 

And  ere  that  faithless  truce  w.is  broke 

Which  freed  her  from  the  unchristian  yoke, 

With  him  his  gentle  daughter  came. 

Nor  there,  since  Meneluus'  dame 

Forsook  her  lord  and  land,  to  prove 

What  woes  await  on  lawless  love. 

Had  fairer  form  adorned  the  shore 

Than  she,  the  matchless  stranger,  bore. 


The  wall  is  rent,  the  ruins  yawn  ; 
And,  with  to-morrow's  earliest  dawn, 


404  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

O'er  the  disjointed  mass  shall  vault 
The  foremost  ol'  tlie  fierce  assault. 
The  bands  are  ranked  :  the  chosen  van 
Of  Tartar  and  of  Mussulman, 
The  full  of  hope,  misnamed  "  forlorn," 
Who  hold  the  thoug-ht  of  death  in  scorn, 
And  win  their  way  with  falchions'  force, 
Or  pave  the  way  with  many  a  corse. 
O'er  wliicli  the  following  brave  may  rise. 
Their  stepijing-stone — the  last  who  dies  ! 

XI. 

'Tis  midnight:  on  the  mountain's  brown 
The  cold,  round  moon  shines  deeply  down 
Blue  roll  the  waters,  blue  the  sl<}' 
Spreads  like  an  ocean  hung  on  high, 
Bespangled  witli  those  isles  of  light, 
So  wildy,  spiritually  bright ; 
Who  ever  gazed  upon  them  shining, 
And  turned  to  earth  without  repining. 
Nor  wished  for  wings  to  flee  away, 
And  mix  with  their  eternal  ray? 
;    ■*   The  waves  on  either  shore  lay  there 
Calm,  clear,  and  azure  as  the  air  ; 
,  And  scarce  their  loam  the  pebbles  shook, 
But  murmured  I'neekly  as  the  brook. 
The  winds  were  pillowed  on  the  waves  ; 
The  banners  tirooped  along  their  staves, 
And,  as  they  fell  around  them  furling. 
Above  them  shone  the  crescent  curling  ; 
And  that  deep  silence  was  unbroke. 
Save  where  the  watch  his  signal  spoke. 
Save  where  the  steed  neighed  oft  and  shrill. 
And  echo  answered  from  the  hill, 
And  the  wide  hum  of  tliat  wild  host 
Rustled  like  leaves  from  coast  to  coast, 
*        As  rose  the  Muez/.in's  voice  in  air 
lii  midnight  call  to  wonted  pra3-er; 
It  rose,  that  chaimted  mournful  strain. 
Like  some  lone  spirit's  o'er  the  plain  ; 
'Twas  musical,  but  sadly  sweet. 
Such  ns  when  winds  and  harp-strings  meet, 
And  takes  a  long  unmeiisured  tone, 
To  mortal  minstrelsy  unknown. 
It  seemed  1o  those  within  tlie  wall 
A  cry  prophetic  of  their  fail : 


'  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH.  465 

It  struck  even  the  besieger's  ear 
With  something  ominous  and  drear, 
An  undefined  and  sudden  thrill, 
Which  malces  (he  heart  a  moment  still' 
Then  beat  with  quicker  pulse,  ashamed  ; 
Of  that  strange  sense  it's  silence  framed ; 
Such  as  a  sudden  passing-bell 
Wakes,  though  but  for  a  stranger's  knell. 

XII. 

The  tent  of  Alp  was  on  the  shore  ; 

The  sound  was  hushed,  the  prayer  was  o'er  j 

The  watch  was  set,  the  night-round  made, 

All  mandates  issued  and  obeyed  : 

'Tis  but  another  anxious  night, 

His  pains  the  morrow  may  requite 

With  all  revenge  and  love  can  pay, 

In  guerdon  for  their  long  delay. 

Few  hours  remain,  and  he  hath  need 

Of  rest,  to  nerve  lor  many  a  deed 

Of  slaughter  ;  but  within  his  soul 

The  thoughts  like  troubled  waters  roll. 

He  stood  alone  among  the  host ; 

Not  his  the  loud  fanatic  boast 

To  plant  the  crescent  o'er  the  cross. 

Or  risk  a  life  with  little  loss. 

Secure  in  Paradise  to  be 

By  Houris  loved  immortally  : 

Nor  his,  what  burning  patriots  feel, 

The  stern  exaltedness  of  zeal, 

Profuse  of  blood,   untired  in  toil, 

When  battling  on  the  parent  soil. 

He  stood  alone  — a  renegade 

Against  the  country  he  betrayed : 

He  stood  alone  amidst  his  band, 

Without  a  trusted  heart  or  hand  : 

They  followed  him,  for  he  was  brave, 

And  great  the  spoil  he  got  and  gave! 

They  crouched  to  him — for  he  had  skill 

To  warp  and  wield  the  vulgar  will : 

But  still  his  Christian  origin 

With  them  was  little  less  than  sin. 

They  envied  even  the  faithless  fame 

He  earned  beneath  a  Moslem  name  ; 

Since  he,  their  mightiest  chief,  had  been 

In  youth  a  bitter  Nazarene. 

They  did  not  know  how  pride  can  stoop, 

When  baffled  feelings  witLering  droop  ; 


^«6  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

They  did  not  know  how  hate  can  bum 

In  hearts  once  changed  irom  soft  to  stern  ; 

Nor  all  the  false  and  fatal  zeal 

The  conve  ■(  of  revenge  can  feel. 

He  ruled  them — man  may  rule  the  worst. 

By  ever  daring  to  be  first : 

So  lions  o'er  the  jackal  sway; 

The  jackal  points,  he  fells  the  prey, 

Then  on  the  vulgar  yelling  press, 

To  gorge  the  relics  of  success. 

XHI. 

His  head  grows  fevered,  and  his  pulse 
The  quick  successive  throbs  convulse  ;^ 
In  vain  from  side  to  side  he  throws 
His  form,  in  courtship  of  repose ; 
Or  if  he  dozed,  a  sound,  a  start. 
Awoke  him  with  a  sunken  heart. 
The  turban  on  his  hot  brow  pressed, 
The  mail  weighed  lead-like  on  his  breast. 
Though  oft  and  long  beneath  its  weight 
Upon  his  eyes  had  slumber  sate. 
Without  or  couch  or  canop)'. 
Except  a  rougher  field  and  sky, 
Than  now  might  yield  a  warrior's  bed, 
Than  now  along  the  heaven  was  spread. 
He  could  not  rest,  he  could  not  stay 
Within  his  tent  to  wait  for  day. 
But  walked  him  forth  along  the  sand, 
Where  thousand  sleepers  strewed  the  strand. 
What  pillowed  them  ?  and  why  should  he 
More  wakeful  than  the  humblest  be  ? 
Since  more  their  peril,  worse  tiieir  toil, 
And  yet  the  fearless  dream  of  spoil ; 
While  he  alone,  where  thousands  passed 
A  night  of  sleep,  perchance  their  last, 
In  sickly  vigil  wandered  on, 
And  envied  all  he  gazed  upon. 

XIV. 

He  felt  his  soul  become  more  light 
Beneath  tlie  freshness  of  the  night. 
Cool  was  the  silent  sky,  though  calm. 
And  bathed  his  brow  with  airy  balm  : 
Beiiind,  the  camp — before  him  lay. 
In  many  a  winding  creek  and  bay. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH.  467 

Lepanto's  pfulf  ;  and,  on  tbe  brow 
Of  Delphi's  hill,  unshaken  snow, 
High  and  eternal,  such  as  shone 
Through  thousand  summers  brightly  gone, 
Along  the  gulf,  the  mount,  tbe  clime  ; 
It  will  not  melt,  like  man,  to  time  : 
Tyrant  and  slave  are  swept  away, 
Less  formed  to  wear  before  the  ray  ; 
But  that  white  veil,  the  lightest,  frailest, 
AVhich  on  the  mighty  mount  tliou  hailest, 
While  tower  and  tree  are  torn  and  rent. 
Shines  o'er  its  craggy  battlement  ; 
In  form  apeak,  in  height  a  cloud, 
In  texture  like  a  hovering  shroud. 
Thus  high  by  parting  Freedom  spread, 
As  from  her  fond  abode  she  fled. 
And  lingered  on  the  spot,  where  long 
Her  prophet  spirit  spake  in  song. 
Oh,  still  her  step  at  moments  falters   ^ 
O'er  withered  fields,  and  ruined  altars. 
And  fain  would  wake,  in  souls  too  broken, 
By  pointing  to  each  glorious  token. 
But  vain  her  voice,  till  better  days 
Dawn  in  lliose  yet  remembered  rays 
Which  shone  upon  the  Persian  flying. 
And  saw  the  Spartan  smile  in  dying. 

XV. 

Not  mindless  of  these  mighty  limes 

Was  Alp,  despite  his  flight  and  crimes  ; 

And  through  this  night,  as  on  he  wandered, 

And  o'er  tbe  past  and  present  pondered. 

And  thought  upon  the  glorious  dead 

Who  there  in  better  cause  had  bled. 

He  felt  how  faint  and  feebly  dim 

The  fame  that  could  accrue  to  him 

Who  cheered  tbe  band  and  waved  the  sword, 

A  traitor  in  a  turbaned  horde  ; 

And  led  them  to  the  lawless  siege. 

Whose  best  success  were  sacrilege. 

Not  so  had  those  his  fancy  numl)ered  ; 

The  chiel's  whose  dust  around  him  slumbered  ; 

Their  phalanx  marshalled  on  the  plain. 

Whose  bulwarks  were  not  then  in  vain. 

They  fell  devoled,  but  undying  ; 

The  very  gale  their  names  seemed  sighing  : 


461  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

The  waters  murmured  of  their  name  ; 
The  woods  were  peopled  with  their  fame; 
The  silent  pillar,  lone  and  gray, 
Claimed  kindred  with  their  sacred  clay  ; 
Their  spirits  wrapt  the  dusky  mountain. 
Their  memory  sparkled  o'er  the  fountain  ; 
The  meanest  rill,  the  misjhtiest  river 
Rolled  mingling  with  their  fame  for  ever. 
Despite  of  every  yoke  she  bears. 
That  land  is  glory's  still  and  theirs  ! 
'Tis  still  a  watch-word  to  the  earth. 
When  man  would  do  a  deed  of  worth, 
He  points  to  Greece,  and  turns  to  tread, 
So  sanctioned,  on  the  tyrant's  head  : 
He  looks  to  her,  and  rushes  on 
Where  life  is  lost,  or  freedom  won.     * 

XV^I. 

Still  by  the  shore  Alp  mutely  mused, 

And  wooed  the  freshness  Night  diffused. 

There  shrinks  no  ebb  in  that  tideless  sea,  (3) 

Which  changeless  rolls  eternally  ; 

So  tliat  wildest  of  waves,  in  their  angriest  mood. 

Scarce  break  on  the  bounds  of  the  land  for  a  rood  ; 

And  the  powerless  moon  beholds  them  flow, 

Heedless  if  she  come  or  go: 

Calm  or  high,  in  main  or  bay, 

On  their  course  she  hath  no  sway. 

The  rock  unworn  its  base  doth  bare, 

And  looks  o'er  the  surf,  but  it  comes  not  there  ; 

And  the  fringe  of  the  foam  may  be  seen  below, 

On  the  line  that  it  left  long  ages  ago  : 

A  smooth  short  space  ol  yellow  sand 

Between  it  and  the  greener  land. 

He  wandered  on,  along  the  beach, 

Till  within  the  range  of  a  carbine's  reach 

Of  the  leagured  wall ;  but  they  saw  him  not. 

Or  how  could  he  'scape  from  the  hostile  shot  ? 

Did  traitors  lurk  in  tlie  Christians'  hold  ? 

Were  their  hands  grown  stitt',  or  their  hearts  waxetl 

cold? 
I  know  not  in  sooth  ;  but  from  yonder  wall 
There  flashed  no  five,  and  there  hissed  no  ball, 
Though  he  stood  beneath  the  bastion's  frown. 
That  flanked  the  seaward  gate  of  the  town  ; 


THE  SIEGE  OF  COKIXTII.  4G9 

Though  he  heari!  tlie  souni!,  iiml  could  almost  tell 

The  sullen  wonls  ot'  the  sentinel, 

As  his  measured  step  on  the  stone  below 

Clanked,  as  he  p;iceei  it  to  and  Iro  ; 

And  he  saw  the  lea^i  dogs  beneaih  the  wall 

Hold  o'er  the  dead  their  carnival. 

Gorging  and  growling  o'er  caiicase  and  limb  ; 

They  vere  too  busy  to  bark  at  him  ! 

From  a  Tartar's  skull  they  had  stripped  the  flesh, 

As  ye  peel  the  fig  when  iis  fruit  is  I'resh  ; 

And  their  whitetusks  crunched  o'er  the  whiter  skull,  (4) 

As  it  slipped  through  their  jaws,  when  their  edge  grew 

dull, 
As  they  lazily  mumbled  the  bones  of  the  dead, 
When  tliej-  scarce  could  rise  iiorn  the  spot  where  Ihey 

fed; 
So  well  had  they  broken  a  lingering  fast 
'Witli  those  who  hm\  fallen  ibr  tiiat  night's  repast. 
And  Alp  knew,  by  the  turbans  that  rolled  on  the  sand. 
The  foremost  of  these  were  the  best  of  his  band  ; 
Crimson  and  green  were  the  shawls  of  their  wear, 
And  each  scalp  had  a  single  long  tult  of  hair,  (J) 
All  the  rest  were  shaven  and  bare. 
The  scalps  were  in  the  wild  dog's  maw, 
The  hair  was  tangled  round  his  juw. 
But  close  by  I  he  shore  on  the  edge  of  the  gulf, 
There  sat  a  vulture  flajjping  a  \\o\{, 
Who  had  stolen  from  tlie  hills,  but  kept  away, 
Scared  by  the  dogs,  from  the  human  prey; 
But  he  sei?ed  on  his  share  of  a  steed  that  lay, 
Picked  by  the  birds,  on  the  sands  of  the  bay. 

XTII. 

Alp  turned  him  from  the  sickening  sight : 
Never  had  shaken  his  nerves  in  figlit ; 
But  he  better  could  brook  to  behold  the  dying, 
Deep  in  the  tide  of  their  warm  blood  lying, 
Scorched  with  the  death-thirst,  and  writhing  in  vain. 
Than  the  perishing  dead  who  are  past  all  pain. 
There  is  sometiiing  of  pride  in  the  perilous  hour, 
Whate'er  be  the  shape  in  which  death  may  lower; 
For  Fame  is  there  to  say  wlio  bleeds. 
And  Honour's  eye  on  daring  tjeeds  ! 
But  when  all  is  past,  it  is  humbling  to  tre.nd. 
O'er  the  weltering  field  of  the  fombless  dead. 
And  see  worms  of  the  eartli,  and  Ibwls  of  the  air, 
Beasts  of  the  forest,  nil  gathering  there  : 
2  11 


-170  THE  SIEGE  OF  COKINTII. 

All  iTgnnlinc:  mnn  iis  Ihcir  prey, 
AH  nyoicing  in  Lis  ilecnj. 

XVIII. 

There  is  n  lomple  in  ruin  stanrfs, 

Fasliioncd  by  lone;  lori^otten  linntls  ; 

Two  or  tiiree  columns,  anil  many  a  stone, 

Marblo  and  granite,  will)  srass  o'ergrown  ! 

Out  \ipon  Time  !   it  wilt  leave  no  more 

Ol  the  things  to  come  than  tlie  things  before  ! 

Out  upon  time  !  who  for  ever  will  leave 

]?ut  enough  of  the  past  for  the  future  to  grieve 

O'er  that  which  had  been,  and  o'er  that  which  must  be  : 

What  we  have  seen,  our  ^ons  shall  see  ; 

Remnants  of  things  that  have  passed  away, 

Tragmenti  of  stone,  reared  by  creatures  of  clay  ! 

XIX. 

He  sate  him  down  at  n  pillar's  base, 
And  passed  his  hand  athwart  his  face  ; 
f  I^ike  one  in  dreary  niu>ing  mood, 

Declining  was  his  allitiule  ; 
His  head  was  drooping  on  his  breast, 
Tevert'd,   throbbing,  and  opprest ; 
And  o'er  his  brow,  so  ilownward  bent, 
Olt  his  beating  fingers  went. 
Hurriedly,  as  you  may  see 
Your  own  run  over  the  ivory  key, 
Ere  the  measured  tone  is  taken 
]}y  the  chords  you  would  awaken. 
There  lie  sate  all  hravily, 
Ashe  heard  the  uight-wind  sigh. 
Was  it  the  wind,  through  some  hollow  stone,  (6) 

Sent  that  soft  and  tender  moan  ? 

lie  lifted  his  head,  and  looked  on  the  sen, 

liut  it  was  unrippleil  as  glass  may  be  ; 

He  looked  on  tlie  long  grass— it  waved  not  a  bla<lc  ; 

How  was  that  gentle  sound  conveyed  ? 

He  looked  to  the  bamieis— each  flag  lay  still, 

So  did  the  leaves  on  Cithjeron's  hill, 

And  he  felt  not  a  breath  come  over  his  cheek  ; 

Wliat  dill  that  sudden  sound  bespeak  ? 

He  turnetl  to  the  left— is  he  sure  of  sight? 

There  sute  u  lady,  youthful  and  bright ! 


'  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH.  471 

XX. 

He  started  up  with  mora  of  fear 

Than  if  mi  armtHl  foe  were  near. 

"  God  of  my  fathers  !  vvli.-it  is  here  ? 

"  Who  art  thou,  and  wherefore  sent 

"  Sd  near  a  hostile  armament ':" 

His  tremblinir  hands  refused  to  sign 

The  cross  he  deemed  no  more  divine: 

He  had  resumed  it  in  that  hour, 

But  conscience  wrung  away  the  power. 

He  gazed,  he  saw  :  he  knew  tlie  face 

Ofbeauty,  and  (he  form  of  grace  5 

It  was  Francesca  by  his  side, 

Tlie  maid  who  might  have  been  his  bride  ! 

The  rose  was  yet  upon  her  cheek, 

lint  mellowed  with  a  tenderer  streak  : 

^Vhere  was  the  play  of  h^^r  soft  lips  Hed  ? 

Gone  was  the  smile  that  enlivened  their  red. 

The  ocean's  calm  within  their  view, 

Ueside  her  eye  had  less  of  blue  ; 

Hut  like  ihat  cold  wave  it  stood  still, 

And  its  glance,  though  clear,  was  chill. 

Around  h/r  lorm  a  thin  robe  twining, 

Nought  concealed  her  bu-ioni  shining  j 

Through  the  parting  of  iier  hulr, 

rioaling  darkly  downward  lh.,'re, 

Her  rounded  arm  siiowed  white  iDu!  bar;- : 

And  ere  yet  she  made  reply. 

Once  she  raised  her  hand  on  high  ; 

It  was  so  wan,  and  trans;)-irent  of  hu". 

You  might  have  seen  the  moon  shine  lurough. 

XXI. 

"  I  come  from  my  rest  to  him  I  love  best, 

"  Tiiat  I  may  b(;  happy,  and  he  may  be  blest. 

"  I  have  passed  the  guards,  the  gate,  the  wall  ; 

"  Songiit  Ihee  in  satety  through  foes  and  all. 

"  'Tis  said  the  lion  will  tinn  and  flee 

"  From  a  maid  in  the  pride  of  her  pindty ; 

"And  the  I'ower  on  high,  that  can  shield  the  good 

"  Thus  from  the  tyrant  of  tin;  wood, 

"  Hath  extended  its  mercy  to  guard  me  as  well 

"  From  the  hands  of  the  leaguering  infidel. 

"  I  come — and  if  I  come  in  vain, 

"Never,  oh  never,  we  meet  again  ! 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

"Thou  liHst  clone  h  feiirful  deed 

"  In  talUno^  .iwiiy  (mm  thy  lutlK^r's  creed  : 

"  But  dash  that  turban  to  eartli,  and  .sif,ni 

"  The  sia:n  of  the  cross,  and  tor  ever  he  mine  ; 

"  Urinfrthe  black  drop  Irom  thy  heart, 

"  Ami  to-morrow  unites  us  no  more  to  part." 

"  And  wliere  sliould  our  bridal  couch  he  spread  ? 

"  In  the  'midst  ol  the  dying  and  I  he  dead  ? 

"  For  to-morrow  we  give  to  llie  siauirhler  and  flame 

"  The  sons  and  the  shrines  of  the  Christian  name. 

"None,  save  thou  and  thine,  I've  sworn 

"  Shall  be  lelt  u|)on  the  morn: 

"  But  thee  will  I  bear  to  a  lovely  sjjot, 

"  \\'here  our   hands  shall    be  joined,  and  our   sorrow 

lorijot. 
"There  thou  yet  shalt  be  my  bride, 
"  AVhen  once  again  I've  quelled  the  pride 
"  Of  Venice  ;  and  her  hated  race 
"  Have  felt  tlia  arm  they  would  didiase 
"  Scourge,  with  a  whip  of  scorpions,  those 
"  Whom  vice  and  e)ivy  made  my  I'oes." 

Upon  h.is  hand  slie  laid,  her  own  — 

Ligiit  Was  the  touch,  but  it  thrilled  to  the  bone, 

And  shot  a  c'liliness  to  his  heart, 

Which  fixed  him  beyond  the  power  to  start. 

Though  slight  was  that  grasp  so  mortal  cold, 

He  could  not  loose  him  I'rom  its  hold  ; 

But  never  did  clasp  of  one  so  dear 

Strike  on  the  pulse  with  such  feeling  of  fear, 

As  those  tliin  fingers,  long  and  white, 

Froze  through  his  blood  bv  their  touch  that  niarht. 

J  he  leverish  glow  of  his  brow  was  gone, 

And  his  heart  sank  so  still  that  it  felt  like  stone, 

As  he  looked  on  the  face,  and  beheld  its  hue 

So  deeply  changed  from  what  he  knew  ? 

Fair  but  faint — without  the  ray 

Of  mind,  that  made  each  ieature  phiy 

Like  sparkling  waves  on  a  sunny  day  ; 

And  her  motionless  lips  lay  still  as  death, 

And  her  words  came  forth  without  her  breath, 

And  there  rose  not  a  heave  o'er  her  bosom's  swell, 

And  there  seemed  not  a  pulse  in  her  veins  to  dwell. 

Though  her  eye  shone  out,  jet  the  lids  were  fixed. 

And  the  glance  that  it  gave  was  wild  and  unmixed 

With  aught  of  change,  as  the  eyes  may  seem 

Of  the  restless  who  walk  in  a  troubled  dream  ; 


t  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH.    '  <*"5 

Like  the  fifjures  on  anas,  that  irloomily  glare 
Stirred  by  the  breath  of  the  wintry  air, 
So  seen  by  the  dying  lamp's  fitful  light, 
Lifeless,  but  life-like,  and  awful  to  sight : 
As  they  seem,  through>the  dimness,  about  to  como 

down 
From  the  shadowy  wall  where  their  images  Irown  ; 
Fearfully  flitting  to  and  fro. 
As  the  guests  on  the  tapestry  come  and  go. 

"  If  not  for  love  of  me  be  given 

"Thus  much,  then,  for  the  love  of  heaven,— 

"  Again  I  say — that  turban  tear 

"From  off  thy  faithless  brow,  and  swear 

"  Thine  injured  country's  sons  to  spare, 

"  Or  thou  "art  lost  ;  and  never  shalt  see 

"Not  earth— that's  past— but  heaven  or  me. 

"  If  this  thou  dost  accord,  albeit 

"  A  heavy  doom  -'tis  thine  to  meet, 

"  Tliat  doom  shall  half  absolve  thy  sin, 

"  And  mercy's  gate  may  veceive  thee  within  : 

"  But  pause  one  moment  more,  and  take 

"  The  cu-'se  of  him  thou  didst  forsake  ; 

"  And  look  once  more  to  heaven,  and  sea 

"  Its  love  for  ever  shut  from  thee. 

"There  is  a  light  cloud  by  the  moon— (7) 

"  'Tis  passing,  and  will  pass  full  soon  — 

<'  If,  by  tJie  time  its  vapoury  sail 

"  Hath  ceased  her  shaded  orb  to  veil, 

"  Thy  heart  within  thee  is  not  changed, 

"  Then  God  iuul  man  are  both  avenged  ; 

"  Dark  wi!l  thy  doom  be,  darker  still 

"  Thine  immortality  of  ill." 

Alp  looked  to  heaven,  and  saw  on  high 
The  sign  she  spake  of  in  the  sky ; 
But  his  heart  was  swollen,  and  turned  aside. 
By  deep  interminable  pride. 
This  first  false  passion  of  his  breast 
Rolled  like  a  torrent  o'er  the  rest. 
Hi:  sue  for  mercy  !    lli  dismayed 
By  wild  words  of  a  timid  maul  ! 
He,  wronged  by  Venice,  vow  to  save 
Her  sons,  devoted  to  the  grave  ! 
No  -though  that  cloud  were  thunder's  worst. 
And  charged  to  cru^h  him— let  it  burst ! 
•2  K  -i 


474  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

He  looked  upon  it  earnestly, 
AVithoutan  accent  ol'  reply  ; 
He  watched  it  passing  ;  it  is  flown  : 
Full  on  Lis  eye  the  clear  moon  shone, 
And  thus  he  spake — "  Whate'er  my  fate, 
"  I  am  no  chans^eling — 'tis  too  late  : 
"  The  reed  in  storms  may  bow  and  quiver, 
"Then  rise  again  ;  the  tree  must  shiver. 

"  What  Venice  made  me,  I  must  be, 

"  Her  foe  in  all,  save  love  to  thee  : 

"  But  tliou  art  safe  :  oh,  fly  with  me  !" 

He  ■turned,  but  she  is  gone  ! 

Nothing  is  there  but  the  column  stone. 

Hath  she  sunk  in  the  earth,  or  melted  in  air  ? 

He  saw  not,  he  knew  not ;  but  nothing  is  there. 

xxir. 

The  night  is  past,  and  shines  the  sun 

As  it   lliat  morn  were  a  jocund  one. 

Lightly  and  brightly  breaks  away 

The  Morning  from  her  mantle  grey, 

And  the  Noon  will  look  on  a  sultry  day. 

Hark  to  the  trump,  and  the  drum, 

Anii  the  mournful  sound  of  tlie  barbarous  horn. 

And  the  flap  of  the  banners,  that  tlit  as  they're  borne, 

And  tlie  neigh  of  the  steed,  and  the  multitude's  hum. 

And  the  clash,  and  the  shout,  '  they  come,  they  come  !' 

The  horsetails  (8)  are  plucked  from  the  ground,  and  the 

sword 
From  its  sheath  :  and  they  form,  and  but  wait  for  the 

word. 
Tartar,  and  Spahi,   and  Turcoman, 
Strike  your  tents,  and  throng  to  the  van; 
Mount  ye,  spur  ye,  skirr  the  plain, 
That  the  fugitive  may  flee  in  vain. 
When  he  breaks  from  the  town  ;  and  none  escape, 
Aged  or  young,  in  the  Christian  shape  ; 
While  your  fellows  on  foot,  in  a  fiery  mass, 
Bloodstain  tlie  breach  through  which  they  pass. 
'  The  steeds  are  all  bridled,  and  snort  to  the  rein  ; 
Curved  is  each  neck,  and  flowing  each  mane  ; 
AVhite  is  tlie  foam  of  Ihiir  champ  on  tlie  bit : 
The  spears  are  uplilted  ;  the  matches  are  lit  ; 
The  cannon  are  pointed,  an<i  ready  to  roar. 
And  crush  the  wall  they  have  crumbled  before  : 
Forms  in  his  plialanx  each  Janizar  ; 
Alp  at  their  head  ;  his  right  arm  is  bare, 


,  ~  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH.  4T.5 

So  is  the  blade  of  his  scimitar ; 

The  klian  anil  the  paclias  are  all  at  their  post ; 

The  vizier  himseli  at  the  head  of  the  ho.^t. 

When  the  culverin's  signal  is  fired,  then  on  ; 

Leave  not  in  Corinth  a  livint;-  one — 

A  priest  at  her  altars,  a  chief  in  her  halls, 

A  hearth  in  her  mansions,  a  stone  on  her  walls. 

God  and  the  prophet — Alia  Hu! 

Up  to  the  skies  with  that  wild  hivM  I 

"There  the  breach  lies  for  passa^^e,  the  ladder  to  scale  ; 

"  And  your  hands  on  yoursabres,  aiidhow  should  ye  fail? 

"  He  wlio  first  downs  with  the  red  cross  may  crave 

"  His  heart's  dearest  wish  ;  let  him  ask  it,  and  have  !" 

Tiius  uttered  Coumourgi,  the  dauntless  vizier; 

Tlie  reply  was  the  brandish  of  sabre  and  spear, 

And  the  shout  of  fierce  thousands  in  joyous  ire  :-- 

Silence — hark  to  the  signal— fire  ! 

XXHI. 

As  the  wolves  that  headlong  go 

On  the  stately  buffalo, 

Though  witii  fiery  eyes,  and  angry  roar, 

And  hoofs  that  stamii,  and  hoins  that  gore, 

He  tramples  on  earth,  or  tosses  on  high 

I'he  foremost,  who  rush  on  his  strength  but  to  die  : 

Thus  against  the  wall  they  went, 

Thus  tile  first  were  backward  bent ; 

Many  a  bosom,  sheathed  in  brass, 

.strewed  the  earth  like  broken  glass, 

Shivered  by  the  shot,  that  tore 

The  ground  whereon  they  moved  no  more  : 

Even  as  they  fell,  in  files  they  lay. 
Like  the  mower's  grass  at  the  close  of  day, 
Whenhis  work  is  done  on  the  levelled  plain  ; 
Such  was  the  fall  of  the  foremost  slain. 

XXIV. 

As  the  spring-tides,  with  heavy  plash, 
From  the  clills  invading  dash 
Huge  fragments,  sapped  by  the  ceaseless  flow, 
Till  white  and  thundering  down  Jhey  go, 
Like  the  avalanche's  snow 
On  the  Alpine  vales  below  ; 
Thus  at  length,  out  breathed  and  worn, 
Corinth's  sons  were  downward  borne 
]iy  the  long  and  oft  renewed 
Charge  of  the  Moslem  multitude. 


476  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

Ill  firmness  they  stood,  and  in  masses  they  fell, 

Heaped,  by  (he  host  of  the  infidel. 

Hand  to  hand,  and  foot  to  foot : 

Nothing  there,  save  death,  was  mute  ; 

Stroke,  and  thrust,  and  flesh,  and  cry 

For  quarter,  or  for  victory. 

Mingle  there  with  the  volleying  thunder. 

Which  makes  the  distant  cities  wonder 

How  the  sounding  battle  goes. 

If  wiih  tliein,  or  for  their  foes  ; 

If  they  must  mourn  or  may  rejoice 

In  that  annihilating  voice, 

VVhlch  pierces  the  deep  hills  through  and  througU 

With  an  echo  dread  and  new  : 

You  might  have  heard  it  on  that  day, 

O'er  Salamis  and  Megara  ; 

(\Ve  have  heard  the  hearers  say,) 

Even  unto  Piraeus  bay. 

XXV. 

From  the  point  of  encountering  blades  to  the  hilt, 
S.ibres  and  swords  with  blood  were  gilt : 
But  the  rampart  is  won,  and  the  spoil  begun. 
And  all  but  the  after  carnage  done. 
Shriller  shrieks  now  mingling  come 
From  within  the  plundered  dome: 
Hark  to  the  haste  of  flying  feet. 
That  splash  in  the  blood  of  the  slippery  street  ; 
liut  here  and  there,  where  'vantage  ground 
Against  the  foe  may  still  be  found, 
-  Desperate  grou|)s,  of  twelve  or  ten, 
Make  a  pause,  and  turn  again — 
With  banded  backs  against  the  wall. 
Fiercely  stand,  or  fighting  fall. 

There  stood  an  old  man — his  hairs  were  white. 

But  his  veteran  arm  was  full  of  might ; 

So  gallantly  bore  he  the  brunt  of  the  fray. 

The  dead  bel'ore  him  on  that  day, 

In  a  semicircle  lay  ; 

Still  he  combated  unwounded. 

Though  retreating,  unsurrounded. 

Many  a  scar  of  former  fight 

Lurked  beneath  his  corselet  bright ; 

iJut  of  every  woiuid  his  body  bore, 

Each  and  all  had  been  ta'en  before  ; 


'         THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH.  4*7 

Though  Hsreil  he  w;is,  «o  iron  of  limh, 
Few  of  our  }(iiilh  couM  cope  wilh  him  ; 
And  the  I'oi's,  wliom  he  singly  kept  at  bay, 
()utnu!fihere»l  liis  thin  liairs  of  silver  gray- 
From  right  to  !efl  his  sabre  s\('ept : 
Many  an  Othnian  molher  wept 
Sons  that  were  unborn,  when  dipped 
His  weapon  first  in  Moslem  gore. 
Ere  his  years  could  comit  a  score. 
Of  all  lie  miLi-ht  have  been  the  sire 
Who  fell  thai  day  beneath  his  ire 
For,  sonless  left  long  years  ago, 
His  wrath  made  many  a  childless  foe  ; 
Anil  since  the  day,  when  in  the  strait  (9) 
liis  only  boy  iiad  met  his  iaie, 
His  parent's  iron  hanil  did  doom 
More  than  a  human  iiecatomb. 

If  shades  by  carnage  be  appeased, 

P.itroclus'  spirit  less  was  pleased 
Than  his,  Minotti's  son,  who  died 

^Vhere  Asia's  bounds  and  ouis  divide. 
Burie<l  he  lay,  where  thousands  before 

For  thou«;an(isof  years  werS  inhumed  on  the  shore: 

yVbal  of  them  is  left,  to  tell 

Where  they  lie,  and  how  they  fell  ? 

Not  a  stone  on  their  turf  nor  a  bone  in  their  graves; 

But  they  live  in  the  verse  that  immortally  saves. 

XXVI. 

Haik  to  the  Alia  shout !   a  band 

Of  the  Mussulman  bravest  and  best  is  at  hand  : 

Their  leader's  nervous  arm  is  bare. 

Swifter  to  smite,  and  never  to  spare — 

Unclothed  to  the  shoulder  it  waves  them  on  ; 

Thus  in  the  fight  is  he  ever  known  : 

Others  a  gaudier  garb  may  show, 

To  tempt  the  spoil  of  the  greedy  foe  ; 

Many  a  hand's  on  a  richer  hilt. 

But  none  on  a  steel  more  ruddily  gilt ; 

Many  a  loftier  turban  may  wear, — 

Alp  is  but  known  by  the  white  arm  bare  ; 

Eook  through  the  thick  of  the  fight,  nis  there  ! 

There  is  not  a  standard  on  that  shore 

So  well  advanced  the  ranks  before  ; 

There  is  not  a  banner  in  Moslem  war 

Will  lure  the  Delhis  half  so  far  ; 

It  glances  like  a  falling  star  I 


<•?»  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

M'here'er  that  mighty  arm  is  seen, 
The  bravest  be,  or  late  have  been  ; 
There  the  craven  cries  lor  (juarter 
Vainly  to  the  vengeliil  Tartar; 
Or  the  hero,  silently  lying, 
Scorns  to  yield  a  groan  in  dying  ; 
Mustering  his  last  I'eeble  blow 
'Gain'st  the  nearest  levelled  loe, 
Though  faint  beneath  the  mutual  wound, 
Grappling  on  the  gory  ground. 

XXVII. 

still  the  old  man  stood  erect, 
And  Alps,  career  a  moment  checked. 
"  Yield  thee  Minotti ;  quarter  take,    *" 
"  For  thine  own,  thy  daughter's  sake." 

"  Never,  renegade,  never  ! 

*'  Though  the  Hie  of  thy  gift  would  last  for  ever." 

"  Francesca  ! — Oh  my  promised  bride  ? 
"  Must  she  too  perish  by  thy  pride  ? 

"  She  is  safe."—"  Where  ?  where  ?"  "  In  heaven  j 

"  From  whence  thy  traitor  soul  is  driven — 

"  Far  from  thee,  and  nndefiled." 

Grimly  then  Minotti  smiled. 

As  he  saw  Alp  staggering  how 

Before  his  words  with  staggering  blow. 

"  Oh  God  !  when  died  she  ?"— "  Yesternight — 

'*  Nor  weep  I  for  her  spirit's  flight  ; 

"  None  of  my  pure  race  shall  be 

♦'  Slaves  to  Mahomet  and  thee  - 

Come  on  !"— That  challenge  is  in  vain — 

Alp's  already  witli  the  slain  ! 

A\'hile  Minotti's  words  were  wreaking 

More  revenge  in  bitter  speaking 

Than  his  falchion's  point  had  found, 

Had  the  time  allowed  to  wound. 

From  within  the  neighbouring  porch 

Of  a  long  defendeil  church, 

\Vhere  the  last  and  desperate  few 

Would  ths  failing  fight  renew. 

The  sharp  shot  dashed  Alp  to  the  ground  ; 

Ere  an  eye  could  view  the  wound 

That  crashed  through  the  brain  of  the  Infidel, 

ilouud  he  spun,  and  down  he  fell ; 


,         THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH.  479 

A  flash  like  fire  within  his  eyes 
Blazed,  as  he  bent  no  more  to  rise. 
And  then  eternal  darkness  sunk 
Through  iiU  the  palpitiiting  trunk  : 
Nought  of  Hie  lelt,  save  a  quivering 
Where  his  limbs  were  slightly  shivering, 
They  turned  him  on  his  back  ;  his  breast 
And  brow  were  stained  with  gore  and  dust, 
And  through  his  lips  the  lite-blood  oozed, 

From  its  deep  veins  lately  loosed  ; 

But  in  his  pulse  there  was  no  throb. 

Nor  on  his  lips  one  dying  sob  : 

Sigh,  nor  word,  nor  struggling  breath 

Heralded  his  way  to  death  : 

Ere  his  very  thought  could  pray, 

Unnanealed  he  pass'd  away. 

Without  a  hope  irom  mercy's  aid — 

To  the  last  a  renegade. 

XXVIII. 

Fearfully  the  yell  arose, 
Of  his  followers,  and  his  foes  ; 
These  in  joy,  in  fury  those  ; 
Then  again  in  conflict  mixing, 
Clashing  swords,  and  spears  transfixing, 
Interchanged  the  blow  and  thrust. 
Hurling  warriors  in  the  dust. 
Street  by  street,  and  foot  by  foot. 
Still  Minotti  dares  dispute 
The  latest  portion  of  the  land 
Left  beneath  his  high  command  ; 
With  him,  aiding  heart  and  hand, 
The  remnant  of  his  gallant  band. 
Still  the  church  is  tenable. 

Whence  issued  late  the  fated  ball 

That  half  avenged  the  city's  fall, 
When  Alp,  her  fierce  assailant,  fell : 
Thither  bending  sternly  back, 
They  le:ive  before  a  bloody  track  : 
And,  with  their  faces  to  the  foe, 
Dealing  wounds  with  every  blow. 
The  chief,  and  his  retreating  train, 
Join  to  those  within  the  fane  : 
There  they  yet  may  breathe  awhile, 
Sheltered  by  the  massy  pile. 


4S0  THE  SIEGE  Or   COillNTn. 


XXIX. 

]{iief  brealhiii2f  lime  !  the  tiii-b:ini.*d  host. 

With  iidtltnl  Ti\\\kx  hikI  ragfinjr  bo:isl, 

Tifs-  oiiwunl.s  with  such  s!reii!<ili  aiiii  jieat, 

Their  nutnljL'rs  balk  tiiL-ir  own  letreat; 

I'lir  narrow  th:^  way  lljat  led  lo  I  he  .spot 

U'herc  siiii  l!ie  Christians  yieldfil  iiol  ; 

An,l  tht;  !'aieaio>l,  il'  ieariul,  may  vainly  try 

Through  the  massy  column  to  tuin  iUki  iih  ; 

They  perl'orce  nuisL  lio  or  die. 

They  die  ;  but  ere  their  eyes  could  close 

Avenn-eis  o'er  (heir  bodies  rose  ; 

Fresh  and  liirious,   fast  tliey  fill 

'J'he  ranks  uiitiiiniied,  llioug-ii  slaug-htesed  still  ; 

And  laint  tlie  wear)  Christians  wax 

Beiure  the  still  renewed  attacks  : 

And  now  the  Othmans  gain  the  gate  ; 

S; ill  re>ists  its  iron  weight, 

And  still,  nil  (itadly  aimed  and  hot, 

From  every  crevice  comes  the  sfiot ; 

From  every  shatteri'd  window  pour 

The  volleys  of  the  sulphurous  shower  : 

But  tlie  portal  wavering  grows  and  weak — 

1  he  iron  yields,  the  hinges  creak — 

li  h.'ii  Is  — :■  iV.lIs — and  all  is  o'er  ; 

Lost  Corinih  n;a\'  resist  no  more  I 

XXI. 

Daikly,  sternly,  and  all  alone, 

ISiinotii  stood  o'er  the  altar  sione  : 

Madonna's  lace  upon  liini  shone, 

Painted  in  heavenly  hues  aliove, 

^\'ith  eyes  ol'  light  and  looks.ot  love  ; 

And  placed  upon  that  holy  shrine 

To  fix  our  thoughts  on  tilings  divine. 

When  pictured  there,  we  kneeling  see 

Her  and  the  boy-Ood  on  her  knee, 

Smiling  sweetly  on  each  pra3-cr 

To  heaven,  as  it  to  wait  it  there. 

Still  she  smiled  ;  even  now  she  smiles, 

Though  slaughter  streams  along  her  aisles  : 

JMinotti  lilted  his  aged  eye, 

And  made  the  sign  ot  a  cross  with  a  sigh, 

Then  seized  a  torch  which  blazed  thereby  ; 

And  still  he  stood,  while,  with  steel  and  tJame, 

Inwurd  and  onward  the  Mussulman  came. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH.  48J 


XXXI. 

The  vaults  beneath  the  mosaic  stone 

Contained  the  dead  of  ages  gone  ; 

Their  names  were  on  the  graven  floor. 

But  now  illegible  with  gore  ; 

The  carved  crests,  and  curious  hues 

The  varied  marble's  veins  diffuse, 

Were  smeared,  and  slippery- — stained,  and  strowM 

With  broken  swords,  and  helms  o'erthrown  : 

There  were  dead  above,  and  the  dead  below 

Lay  cold  in  many  a  coffined  row : 

You  might  see  them  piled  in  sable  state, 

By  a  pale  light  through  a  gloomy  grate  ; 

But  War  had  entered  their  dark  caves, 

And  stored  along  the  vaulted  graves 

Her  sulphurous  treasures,  thickly  spread 

In  masses  by  the  fleshless  dead  : 

Here,  throughout  the  siege,  had  been 

The  Christians'  chielest  magazine; 

To  these  a  late  formed  train  now  led, 

Minotti's  last  and  stern  resource 

Against  the  foe's  o'ervvhelming  force.  " 

XXXII. 

The  foe  came  on,  and  few  remain 

To  strive,  and  those  must  strive  in  vain  : 

For  lack  of  further  lives,  to  slake 

The  thirst  of  vengeance  now  awake, 

With  barbarous  blows  they  gash  the  dead. 

And  lop  tlie  already  lifeless  liead, 

And  fell  tlie  statues  from  their  niche, 

And  spoil  the  shrines  of  oll'erings  rich, 

And  from   each  others'  rude  hands  wrest 

The  silver  vessels  saints  had   blessed. 

To  the  high  altar  on  they  go  ; 

Oh,  but  it  made  a  glorious  show  ! 

On  its  table  still  behold 

The  cup  of  consecrated  gold  ; 
Massy  and  deep,  a  glittering  prize. 

Brightly  it  sparkles  to  plunderers'  eyes  : 
That  morn  il  held  the  holy  v\-ine 
Converted  by  Christ  to  his  blood  so  divine. 
Which  his  worsliippers  drank  at  the  break  of  day, 

To  shrive  their  souls  eie  they  joined  in  the  fraj. 
Still  a  few  drops  within  it  lay ; 

2  S 


4?-2  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

And  round  the  sacred  table  glow 
Twelve  lofty  lamps,  in  splendid  row, 
From  the  purest  metal  cast ; 
A  spoil— the  richest,  .and  the  last. 

XXXIII. 

5o  near  tbey  came,  the  nearest  stretched 
To  grasp  the  sisoil  he  almost  reached, 

When  old  Minotti's  hand 
Touched  with  the  torch  the  train— 

'Tis  fired  ! 
Spire,  vaults,  the  shrine,  the  spoil,  the  slain, 
The  turbaned  victors,  the  Christian  band. 
All  that  of  living  or  dead  remain, 
Hurled  on  high  with  the  shivered  face, 

In  one  wild  roar  expired  ! 
The  shattered  town— the  walls  thrown  dowH— 
The  waves  a  moment  backward  bent— 
The  hills  that  shake,  although  unrent, 

As  if  an  earthquake  passed — 
The  thousand  shapeless  things  all  driven 
In  cloud  and  flame  athwart  the  heaven, 

Bv  that  tremendous  blast- 
Proclaimed  the  desperate  conflict  o'er  : 
On  that  too  long  afflicted  shore  : 
Up  to  the  sky  like  rockets  go 
Ail  that  mingled  there  below  : 
Many  a  tall  and  goodly  man, 
Scorched  and  shrivelled  to  a  span, 
\\'hen  he  fell  to  earth  again 
Like  a  cinder  strewed  the  plain  : 
Down  the  ashes  shower  like  rain  ; 
Some  fell  in  the  gulf,  whicli  received  the  spriskles. 
With  a  thousand  circling  wrinkles  ; 
Some  fell  on  the  shore,  but,  far  away, 
Statter'd  o'er  the  isthmus  lay  ; 
Christian  or  Moslem,  which  be  they  ? 
Let  their  mothers  see  and  say  ! 
Vi'hen  in  cradled  rest  they  lay, 
And  each  nursing  motlier  smiled 
On  the  sweet  sleep  of  her  child. 
Little  deemed  she  such  a  day 
Would  rend  those  tender  limbs  away. 
Not  the  matitons  that  them  bore 
Could  discern  their  offspring  more  ; 
That  one  moment  left  no  trace 
More  of  human  form  or  face 
Save  a  scattered  scalp  or  bone  ; 


THE  SIEGE  OF    CORINTH,  482 

And  ilown  came  blazing  rafters,  slrowii 
Around,  and  many  a  falling  stone, 
Deeply  dinted  in  the  clay, 
All  blackened  there  and  reeking  lay. 
All  the  living  things  that  heard 
That  deadly  earth  shock  disappeared  : 
The  wild  birds  Hew  ;  the  wild  dogs  fled, 
And  howling  left  the  unburied  dead  ; 
The  camels  iVom  their  keepers  broke, 
The  distant  steer  forsook  the  yoke — 
The  nearer  steed  plunged  o'er  the  plain, 
And  burst  his  girth,  and  tore  his  rein  ; 
The  bull-frog's  note  from  out  the  marsh, 
Deep-mouthed  arose,  and  doubly  havsh  ; 
The  wolves  yelled  on  the  caveriied  hill, 
^Vhere  echo  roU'd  in  tliunder  still ; 
The  jackal's  troop,  in  gathered  cry,  (10) 
Bayed  from  afar  complainingly. 
With  a  mixed  and  mournful  sound. 
Like  crying  babe,  and  beaten  hound  : 
WUh  sudden  wing,  and  ruilied  breast, 
Tire  eagle  left  his  rocky  nest. 
And  mounted  nearer  to  the  sun, 
The  clouds  beneath  him  seemed  so  dun  ; 
Their  smoke  assailed  his  startled  beak. 
And  made  him  higher  soar  and  shriek — 
Thus  was  Corinth  lost  and  won  ! 


NOTES 

TO    THE 

SIEGE   OF   CORINTH. 


(1)  ^ 

The  Turcoman  hath  left  his  herd. 

The  life  of  the  Turconaaas  is  wandering  and  patriarchal : 
they  dwell  in  tents. 

(2) 
Coumourgi — he  whose  closing  scene. 

Ali  Coumourgi,  the  favourite  of  three  sultans,  and  Grand 
Vizier  to  Achmet  III.  after  recovering  Peloponnesus  from  the 
Venetians  in  one  campaign,  was  mortally  wounded  in  the  next, 
against  the  Germans,  at  the  battle  of  Peterwaradin,  (in  the 
plain  of  Carlowitz)  in  Hungary,  endeavouring  to  rally  his 
guards.  He  died  of  bis  wounds  next  day.  His  last  order  was 
the  decapitation  of  General  Breuner,  and  some  other  German 
prisoners ;  and  his  last  words,  "  Oh  that  I  could  thus  serve  all 
the  Christian  dogs  !"  a  speech  and  act  not  unlike  one  of  Cali- 
gula. He  was  a  young  man  of  great  ambition  and  unbounded 
presumption  :  on  being  told  that  Prince  Eugene,  then  opposed 
to  him,  "  was  a  great  general,"  he  said,  "  [  shall  become  a 
greater,  and  at  his  expense." 

(3) 
There  shrinks  no  ebb  in  that  tideless  sea. 

The  reader  need  hardly  be  reminded  that  there  are  uo  per- 
ceptible tides  in  the  Mediterranean. 

(4) 

And  their  white  tusks  crunched  o'er  the  whiter  skull. 

This  spectacle  I  have  seen,  such  as  described,  beneath  the 
^vall  of  the  Seraglio  at  Constantinople,  in  the  little  cavities 
worn  by  the  13osphorus  in  the  rock,  a  narrow  terrace  of 
which  projects  between  the  wall  and  the  water.  I  think  the 
fact  is  also  mentioned  in  Hobhouse's  travels.  The  bodies  wera 
probably  those  of  some  refractory  Janizaries. 


NOTES    TO    THE    SIEOE    OF    CORINTH.  4Si 

(5) 

And  each  scalp  had  a  single  long  tuft  of  hair. 

This  tuft,  or  long  lock,  is  left  from  a.  superstition  tJiat  Ma- 
homet will  draw  them  iiilo  Paradise  by  it. 

(6) 
I  must  here  acknowledge  a  close,  though  unintentional,  re- 
semblance in  these  twelve  lines  to  a  passage  in  an  unpublished 
poem  of  Mr.  Coleridge,  called  "  Christabel."  It  was  not  till 
after  these  lines  were  written  that  I  heard  that  wild  and  singu- 
larly original  and  beautiful  poem  recited;  and  the  MS.  of  that 
production  I  never  saw  till  very  recently,  by  the  kindness  of 
Mr.  Coleridge  himself,  who,  I  hope,  is  convinced  that  1  have 
not  been  a  wilful  plagiarist.  Ths  original  idea  undoubtedly 
pertains  to  Mr.  Coleridge,  whose  poem  has  been  composed 
above  fourteen  years.  Let  me  conclude  by  a  hope  that  he 
will  not  longer  delay  the  publication  of  a  production,  of  which 
■  I  can  only  add  my  mite  of  approbation  to  the  applause  of  far 
more  competent  judges. 

There  is  a  light  cloud  by  the  moon — 

I  have  been  told  that  the  idea  expressed  in  this  and  the 
five  following  lines  has  been  admired  by  those  whose  appro- 
bation is  valuable.  I  am  glad  of  it :  but  it  is  not  original — 
at  least  not  mine  :  it  may  be  found  much  better  expressed  in 
pages  182-3-4  of  the  !<Inglish  version  of  "  Valhek"  (I  forget 
the  precise  page  of  the  French),  a  work  to  which  I  have  be- 
fore referred;  and  never  recur  to,  or  read,  without  a  renewal 
of  gratification. 

(8) 
The  horsetails  are  plucked  from  the  ground,  and  the  sword. 
The  horsetail,  fixed  upon  a  lance,  a  Pasha's  standard. 

(9) 
And  since  the  day,  v:hen  in  the  strait — 

In  the  naval  battle  at  the  moutli  of  the  Dardanelles,  be- 
tween the  Venetians  and  the  Turks. 

(10) 

The  jackal's  troop,  in  gathered  cry. 

I  believe  I  have  taken  a  poetical  license  to  transplant  the 
jackal  from  Asia.  In  Greece  I  never  saw  nor  heard  thi'se 
animals  ;  but  among  the  ruins  of  Ephesus  I  have  heard  them 
by  hundreds.     They  haunt  ruins,  and  loUovv  armies. 

2  S  2 


TO 

SCROPE  BEARDMORE  DAVIES,  Esq. 

THE    FOLLOWINfi    POEM 

IS   INSCRIBED 

BT    ONE    WHO    H.IS    LOXr;    ADMIRED    HIS    TALENTS 

AND    VAI-UED    HIS    FRIENDSHIP. 

JaH.22,  1816. 


The  following  poem  is  grounded  on  a  circunistance  mentioned 
in  Gibbon's  "Antiquities  of  the  House  of  Brunswick." — [ 
am  aware,  that  in  modern  times  the  delicacy"  or  fastidious- 
ness of  the  reader  may  deem  such  subjects  unfit  ibr  the  pur- 
poses of  poetr)'.  The  Greek  dramatists,  and  some  of  the 
best  of  our  old  English  writers,  were  of  a  different  opinion  : 
as  Alfieri  and  Schiller  have  also  been,  more  recently,  upon 
tile  continent.  The  following  extract  will  explain  the  facts 
on  which  the  story  is  founded.  The  name  of  Azo  is  substi- 
tuted for  Nicholas,  as  more  metrical. 

"  Under  the  reign  of  Nicholas  III.  Ferrara  was  polluted  with 
''a  domestic  tragedy.  By  the  testimony  of  an  attendant, 
"  and  his  own  observation,  the  Marquis  of  Este  discovered 
"  the  incestuous  loves  of  his  wile  Parisina,  and  Hugo  his 
"  bastard  son,  a  beautiful  and  valiant  youth.  They  were 
"  beheaded  in  the  castle  by  the  sentence  of  a  father  and  hus- 
"  band,  who  published  his  shame,  and  survived  their  execu- 
"  tion.  He  was  unfortunate,  if  they  were  guilty  ;  if  they 
"  were  innocent,  he  was  still  more  unfortunate :  nor  is  there 
"■  any  possible  situation  in  which  I  can  sincerely  approve  the 
"  last  act  of  the  justice  of  a  parent. " — Gibbon's  Miscella- 
neoua  fFurks,  vol.  3d.  p.  470,  new  edition. 


P  ARISIN  A. 


••• 


1 T  is  the  hour  when  from  the  boughs 

The  nightingale's  high  note  is  heard  ; 

It  is  the  hour  when  lovers'  voWS 

Seem  sweet  in  every  whisper'd  word  ; 

And  gentle  winds,  and  waters  near, 

Make  music  to  the  lonely  ear. 

Each  flower  the  dews  have  lightly  wet, 

And  in  the  sky  the  stars  are  met, 

And  on  the  wave  is  deeper  blue. 

And  on  the  leaf  a  browner  hue. 

And  in  the  heaven  that  clear  obscure, 

So  softly  dark,  and  darkly  pure, 

Which  follows  the  decline  of  day, 

As  twilight  melts  beneath  the  moon  away. 

11. 

But  it  is  not  to  list  to  the  waterfall 

That  Parisina  leaves  her  hall. 

And  it  is  not  to  gaze  on  the  heavenly  light 

That  the  lady  walks  in  the  shadow  of  night ; 

And  if  she  sils  in  Este's  bower, 

'Tis  not  for  the  sake  of  its  full-blown  flower — 

•She  listens — but  not  for  the  nightingale — 

Thougli  her  ear  expects  as  soft  a  tale. 

There  glides  a  step  through  the  foliage  thick. 

And  her  check  grows  pale— and  her  heart  beats  quick. 

There  whispers  a  voice  through  the  rustling  leaves. 

And  her  blush  returns,  and  her  bosom  heaves : 


4'JO    '  PARISINA. 

A  moment  more — and  they  shall  meet— 
^Tis  past— her  lover's  at  her  feet. 

III. 

And  what  unto  them  is  the  world  beside 
With  all  its  change  of  time  and  tide  ? 
Its  living  things — its  earth  and  sky — 
Are  nothing  to  their  mind  and  eye. 
And  heedless  as  the  dead  are  they 
Of  aught  around,  above,  beneath  ; 
As  if  all  else  had  passed  away. 
They  only  for  each  other  breathe  ; 
Their  very  sighs  are  full  of  joy 
So  deep,  that  did  it  not  decay, 
That  happy  madness  would  destroy 
The  hearts  which  feel  its  fiery  sway  : 
Of  guilt,  or  peril,  do  they  deem 
,  In  that  tumultuous  tender  dream  ? 

Who  that  have  felt  that  passion's  power, 

Or  paused,  or  feared  in  such  an  hour  ? 

Or  thought  how  brief  such  moments  last : 

But  yet— they  are  already  past ! 

Alas  !  we  must  awake  before 

We  know  such  vision  comes  no  more. 

IV. 

With  many  a  lingering  look  they  leave 

The  spot  of  guilty  gladness  past ; 

And  though  they  hope,  and  vow,  they  grieve, 

As  if  that  parting  were  the  last. 

Tlve.  frequent  sigh— the  long  embrace— 

The  lip  tliat  there  would  cling  fpr  ever. 

While  gleams  on  Parisina's  face 

The  Heaven  she  fears  will  not  forgive  her, 

As  if  each  calmly  conscious  star 

Beheld  her  frailty  from  afar — 

The  frequent  sigh,  the  long  embrace, 

Yet  binds  them  to  their  trysting-place. 

But  it  must  come,  and  they  must  part 

In  fearful  heaviness  of  heart. 

With  all  the  deep  and  shudder iug  chill 

Which  follows  fast  the  deeds   of  ill. 


And  Hugo  is  gone  to  bis  lonely  bed. 
To  covet  there  another's  bride  ; 


PARISINA.  49] 

But  she  mvist  lay  her  conscious  head 
A  husband's  trusting  heart  beside. 
But  fevered  in  her  sleep  she  seems, 
And  red  her  cheek  with  troubled  dreams. 
And  mutters  she  in  her  unrest 
A  name  she  dare  not  breathe  by  day. 
And  clasps  her  Lord  unto  the  breast 
AVhich  pants  lor  one  away  : 
And  he  to  that  embrace  awakes, 
And,  happy  in  the  thought,  mistakes 
That  dreaming  sigh,  and  warm  caress. 
For  such  as  he  was  wont  to  bless  ; 
And  could  in  veiy  fondness  weep 
O'er  her  who  loves  him  even  in  sleep. 

VI. 

He  clasped  her  sleeping  to  his  heart. 
And  listened  to  each  broken  word : 
He  hears — Why  doth  Prince  Azo  start, 
As  if  the  Archangel's  voice  he  heard  ? 
And  well  he  may— u  deeper  doom 
Could  scarcely  thunder  o'er  his  tomb. 
When  he  shall  wake  to  sleep  no  more, 
And  stand  the  eternal  throne  before. 
And  well  he  may— his  earthly  peace 
Upon  that  sound  is  doomed  to  cease. 
That  sleeping  whisper  of  a  name 
Bespeaks  her  guilt  and  Azo's  shame. 
And  whose  that  name  ?  that  o'er  his  pillow 
Sounds  fearful  as  the  breaking  billow, 

Which  rolls  the  plank  upon  the  shore. 
And  dashes  on  the  pointed  rock 

The  wretch  who  sinks  to  rise  no  more — 

So  came  upon  his  soul  the  shock. 

And  whose  that  name  ?  'tis  Hugo's— his— 

In  sooth  he  had  not  deemed  of  this  !— 

'Tis  Hugo's— he,  the  child  of  one 

He  loved— his  own  all-evil  son — 

The  offspring  of  his  wayward  youth. 

When  he  betrayed  Bianca's  truth, 

The  maid  whose  folly  could  confide 

In  him  who  made  her  not  his  bride. 

VII. 

He  plucked  his  poniard  in  its  sheath, 
But  sheathed  it  ere  the  point  was  bare  — 
Howe'er  unworthy  now  to  breathe. 
He  could  not  slay  a  thing  so  fair— 


492  PARISINA. 

At  least,  not  smiling— sleeping— there — 
Nay,  more: — be  did  not  vvuke  her  then, 
But  gazed  upon  her  with  af>Iance 
Which,  had  she  roused  her  i'rom  her  trance, 
Had  frozen  her  sense  lo  sleep  again — 
And  o'er  his  brow  thelnirning  lamp 
Gleamed  on  the  dew  drops  big  and  damp. 
She  spake  no  more— but  slill  she  slumbered — 
While,  in  his  thought,  her  days  are  numbered. 

VIII. 

And  with  the  morn  he  sought,  and  found 
In  many  a  tale  from  those  around, 
The  proof  of  all  lie  feared  to  know 
Their  present  guilt,  his  future  woe  ; 
The  long  conniving  damsels  seek 

To  save  themselves,  and  would  transfer 
The  guilt— the  shame— the  doom—  lo  her  : 
Concealment  is  no  more — they  speak 
AH  circumstance  which  may  compel 
Full  credence  to  the  tale  they  tell : 
And  Azo's  tortured  heart  and  ear 
Have  nothing  more  to  feel  or  hear. 

IX. 

lie  was  not  one  who  brooked  delay: 

Within  the  chamber  of  his  state, 
The  chief  of  Este's  ancient  sway 

Upon  his  throne  of  judgment  sate  ; 
His  nobles  and  his  guards  are  there — 
Before  him  is  the  sinlul  pair  ; 
Both  young— and  one  how  passing  fair ! 
With  swordless  belt,  and  fettered  hand. 
Oh  Christ !  that  tlius  a  son  should  stand 

Before  a  lather's  face  ! 
Yet  thus  must  Hugo  meet  his  sire, 
And  hear  the  sentence  of  his  ire, 

TJie  tale  of  his  disgrace  ! 
And  yet  he  seems  not  overcome. 
Although,  as  yet,  his  voice  be  dumb. 

X. 

And  still,  and  pale,  and  silently 

Did  Parisina  wait  her  doom  ; 
How  changed  since  last  her  speaking  eye 

Glanced  gladness  round  the  glittering  room, 


PARISINA.  493 

Where  higli-I)orn  men  were  proud  to  wait 
V/here  Beauty  watched  to  imitate 

Her  njentle  voice — her  lovely  mien — 
Ami  gather  fiom  lier  air  and  gait 

The  graces  ol'  its  queen  : 
Then,  had  her  eye  in  sorrow  wept, 
A  thousand  warriors  tortli  had  leapt, 
A  thousand  swords  had  sheathless  shone, 
And  made  her  quanel  all  their  own.  > 

Now,  what  is  slie.  ?  and  what  are  they  ? 
Can  she  command,  or  these  obey  ? 
All  silent  and  unlieeding  now. 
With  downcast  eyes  and  knitting  brow, 
And  folded  arms,  and  freezing  air, 
And  lips  that  scarce  tiieir  scorn  forbear, 
Her  knights  and  dames,  her  court—  is  there  : 
And  he,  the  chosen  one,  whose  lance 
Had  yet  been  couched  before  her  glance, 
Who— were  his  arm  a  moment  free  — 
Had  died  or  gained  her  liberty  ; 
The  minion  of  his  father's  bride — 
He,  too  is  fettered  by  her  side. 
Nor  sees  her  swoln  and  full  eye  swim 
Less  for  lier  own  despair  than  him : 
Those  lids  o'er  which  the  violet  vein — 
Wandering,  leaves  a  tender  stain. 
Shining  through  the  smoothest  white 
That  e'er  did  sol'test  kiss  invite — 
Now 'seemed  with  hot  and  livid  glow 
To  press,  not  shade  the  orbs  below  ; 
Which  glance  so  heavilj',  and  fill. 
As  tear  on  tear  grows  gathering  still. 

xr. 

And  he  for  her  had  also  wept. 

But  for  the  eyes  that  on  him  gazeil : 
His  sorrow,  if  he  felt  it,  slept ; 

Stern  and  erect  his  brow  was  raised. 
Whate'er  the  grief  his  soul  avosved. 
He,  would  not  shrink  before  the  crowd  ; 
But  yet  he  dared  not  look  on  her  : 
Remembrance  of  the  hours  that  were — 
His  guilt — his  love- -his  present  state— 
His  father's  wralh — all  good  men's  hate — 
His  earthly,  his  eternal  fate — 
And  hers,— oh,  hers  !— he  dared  not  Ihrow 
Ouii  look  upon  Ihiit  deathlike  brov,-  ! 
■2  T 


4^i       '  PARISINA. 

Else  had  his  rising  heart  betrayed 
Remorse  lor  all  the  wreck  it  made. 

XII. 

And  Azo  spake  : — "  But  yesterday 

"  I  gloried  in  a  wile  and  son  ; 
"  Thai  dream  this  morning  passed  away  ; 

Ere  day  declines,  I  shall  have  none. 
"  My  lile  nuist  linger  on  alone  : 
"  Well,— let  that  pass— there  breathes  not  one 
"  Who  woukl  not  do  as  I  have  done  : 
"  Those  ties  are  broken  not  by  me  ; 

"  Let  that  too  pass ;— the  doom's  prepared  ! 
"  Hngo,  the  priest  aw  aits  on  thee, 
"  And  then — thy  crime's  reward  I 
"  Away  !   address  thy  prayers  to  heav'n, 

"  Before  its  evening  stars  are  met — 
"  Learn  it  thou  there  canst  be  forgiven  ; 

"  It's  mercy  niay  absolve  thee  yet. 
"  But  here,  ujion  the  earih  l^eneath, 

"  There  is  no  spot  where  thou  atui  I 
"  Togetlier,  lor  an  hour,  could  breathe  : 

"  Tarewell  !  I  will  not  see  Ihee  die — 
"  But  thou  !   Irail  thing  !  shall  view  Ids  head— 

"  Away  !   I  cannot  speak  the  rest : 

"  Go  !   woman  of  the  wanton  breast  ; 
"  Not  I,  but  thou,  his  blood  dost  shed  : 
"  Go  !   it  that  sight  thou  canst  outlive, 
"And  joy  thee  in  the  life  I  give." 

XIIL 

And  here  stern  A/,o  hid  his  face — 
For  on  his  brow  the  swelling  vein 
Throlibed  as  if  back  \iuon  his  brain 
The  hot  blood  ebbed  and  flo\Yed  again  ; 
And  therefore  bowed  he  lor  a  space. 
And  passed  his  shaking  hand  along 
His  eye,  to  veil  it  from  the  throng  : 
While  Hugo  raised  his  chained  hands, 
And  for  a  brief  delay  demands 
His  father's  ear  :  the  silent  sire 
Forbids  not  what  his  v%ords  require. 

"  It  is  not  that  I  dread  the  death — 
"  For  lliou  hast  seen  me  by  thy  side 
"  All  redly  through  the  battle  ride. 


/  PAlllSINA.  496 

"  And  thnt  not  once  a  useless  brnnd 

"  Thy  slaves  have  wrested  Irom  m\"  hand, 

"  Hath  shed  more  blood  in  cause  of  thine, 

"  Than  e'er  can  stain  the  axe  of  mine  : 

"  Thou  gav'st,  and  may'st  resume  my  breath, 

"  A  gift  for  which  I  thanlc  thee  not ; 

"  Nor  are  my  mother's  wrongs  forgot, 

"  Her  slighted  love  and  ruined  name, 

"  Her  offsprings  heritage  of  sbame  ; 

"  But  she  is  in  the  grave,  where  tie 

"  Her  son,  thy  rival,  soon  shall  be. 

"  Her  broken  heart— my  severed  head  — 

"  Shall  witness  for  thee  from  the  dead 

"  How  trusty  and  how  tender  were 

"  Thy  youthful  love — paternal  care. 

"  'Tis  true,  that  I  have  done  thee  wrong — 

'•  But  wrong  for  wrong — this  deemed  thy  bride, 

"  The  other  victim  of  thy  pride, 

"  Thou  know'st  for  me  was  destined  long. 

"  Thou  saw'st,  and  coveted'st  her  charms — 

"  And  with  thy  very  crime — my  birth, 

"  Thou  taunted'st  me— as  little  worth  ; 

"  A  match  ignoble  for  her  arms, 

"  Because,  forsooth,  I  could  not  claim 

"  The  lawful  heirship  of  thy  name, 

"  Nor  sit  on  Este's  lineal  throne  : 

"  Yet  w-ere  a  few  short  summers  mine, 

"  My  name  should  more  tlian  Este's  shine 

"  With  honours  all  my  own. 

"  I  had  a  sword — and  have  a  breast 

"  That  should  have  won  as  haught(2)  a  crest 

"  As  ever  waved  along  the  line 

"  Of  all  these  sovereign  sires  of  Ihiu'?. 

*'  Not  always  knightly  spurs  are  worn 

"  The  brightest  by  the  better  born  ; 

"  And  mine  have  lanced  my  courser's  flank 

"  Before  proud  chiefs  of  princely  rank, 

"  When  charging  to  the  cheering  cry 

"  Of  <  Este  and  of  Victory  !' 

"  I  will  not  plead  the  cause  of  crim?, 

"  Nor  sue  thee  to  redeem  from  time 

"  A  few  brief  hours  or  days  that  must 

"  At  length  roll  o'er  my  reckless  dust ; — 

"  Such  maddening  moments  as  my  past, 

'<  They  could  not,  and  they  did  not,  last  —     - 

"  Albeit,  my  birth  and  name  be  base, 

'<  And  thy  nobility  of  r^ice 

"  Disdained  to  deck  a  thing  like  me— 


496  PARISINA. 

"  Yet  In  my  lineaments  llit-y  trace 

"  Some  features  of  my  fullier's  face, 

"  And  in  my  spirit — all  i)f  thee. 

"  From  thee — this  tamelessiiess  of  heart — 

"  From  thee — nay,  wherefore  tlosit  tLou  start  ?- 

"  From  thee  in  all  their  vigour  came 

"My  arm  of  strength,  my  soul  of  flame — 

"  Tho\i  ilidst  not  give  me  life  alone, 

"  But  all  that  made  me  more  thine  own. 

"  See  what  thy  guilty  love  hath  ilone  ! 

"  Repaid  thee  with  too  like  a  son  ! 

"  I  am  no  bastard  in  my  soul, 

"  For  that,  like  thine,  abhorred  controul : 

"  And  for  my  breath,  tLat  hasty  boon 

"  Thou  gav'st  and  wilt  resume  so  soon, 

"  I  valued  it  no  more  than  thou, 

"  When  rose  thy  casque  above  thy  brow, 

"  And  we,  all  side  by  side,  have  striven, 

"  And  o'er  the  dead  our  coursers  driven  : 

*'  The  past  is  nothing — and  at  last 

"The  future  can  but  be  the  past ; 

*'  Yet  would  I  that  I  then  had  died  : 

"  For  though  thou  work'dst  my  mother's  ill, 

"  And  made  thy  own  my  destined  bride, 

"  I  feel  thou  art  my  father  still ; 

"  And,  harsh  as  sounds  thy  hard  decree, 

"  'Tis  not  unjust,  although  from  thee. 

"Begot  in  sin,  to  die  in  shame, 

"  My  life  begun  and  ends  the  same  : 

•'  As  erred  the  sire  so  erred  the  son  — 

"  And  thou  must  punish  both  in  one. 

"  My  crime  seems  worst  to  human  view, 

"  But  God  must  judge  between  lis  too  !" 

XIV. 

He  ceased — and  stood  with  folded  arms. 

On  which  the  circling  fetters  sounded  ; 

And  not  an  ear  but  felt  as  wounded. 

Of  all  the  chiefs  that  there  were  ranked, 

Wl'.en  those  dull  chains  in  meeting  clanked  : 

Till  Parisina's  fatal  charms 

Again  attracted  every  eye — 

Would  she  thus  hear  him  doomed  to  die  ! 

She  stood,  I  said,  all  pale  and  still. 

The  livir)g  cause  of  Hugo's  ill  : 

Her  eyes  unmoved,  but  lull  and  wide. 

Not  once  had  turned  to  cither  side — 


,  PARISINA.  <^'' 

Nor  once  did  those  sweet  eyelids  close, 
Or  shade  the  glance  o'er  wliich  they  ro^e, 
But  round  their  orbs  of  deepest  blue 
The  circling  white  dilated  grew — 
And  there  with  glassy  gaze  slie  stood 
As  ice  were  in  her  curdled  blood  ; 
But  every  now  and  then  a.  tear 
So  large  and  slowly  gathered  slid 
From  the  long  dark  Iringe  ol"  that  fair  lid, 
It  was  a  thing  to  see,  not  hear  ! 
And  those  who  saw,  it  did  surprise, 
Such  drops  could  fall  from  human  eyes. 
To  speak  «he  thought — the  imperfect  not« 
Was  choaked  within  her  swelling  throat, 
Yet  seemed  in  that  low  liollow  groaa 
Her  whole  heart  gushing  in  the  tone. 
It  ceased — again  she  thought  lo  speujj, 
Then  burst  her  voice  in  one  long  shriek, 
And  to  the  earth  she  fell  like  slone 
Or  statue  from  its  base  o'erthrown. 
More  like  a  thing  that  ne'er  had  life, — 
A  monument  of  Azo's  wile,- 
Than  her,  that  living  guilty  thing. 

Whose  every  passion  was  a  sting 

Which  urged  to  guilt,  but  could  not  bear 
That  guilt's  detection  and  despair. 
But  yet  she  lived — and  all  too  soon 
Recovered  from  that  death-like  swoon- 
But  scarce  to  reason— every  sense 
Had  been  o'erstrung  Ijy  pangs  intense  ; 
And  earli  Mail  fibre  of  her  brain 

(As  bowstrings  when  relaxed  by  rain, 

The  erring  arrow  launch  aside) 

Sent  forth  iier  tliouglits  all  wild  and  wide— 

The  past  a  blank,  the  luture  black. 

With  glimpses  of  a  dreary  track. 

Like  lightning  on  the  desart  path, 

When  midnight  stoims  are  nuistering  wrath. 

She  fear'd— she  felt  tliat  something  ill 

Lay  on  her  soul,  so  deep  and  chill- 
That  there  was  sin  and  shame  she  knew ; 

That  some  one  was  to  die — but  who  ? 

Slie  had  lorgotten  :— did  she  breathe  ? 

Could  this  be  still  tlie  earth  beneath, 

Tiie  sky  above,  and  men  around  ; 

Ur  were  they  fiends  who  now  so  frown'd 

On  one,  beiore  whose  eyes  each  eye 

Till  then  had  smiled  in  sympathy  ? 
•2   r  -2 


498  PARISINA. 

All  was  confused  and  undefined 
To  her  all-jdrr'd  and  wandering  mind  ; 
A  chaos  of  wild  hopes  and  Tears  : 
And  now  in  laughter,  now  in  tears, 
Rut  madly  still  in  each  extreme, 
She  strove  with  thai  convulsive  dream  ; 
For  so  it  seemed  on  her  to  break  : 
Uh  !  vainly  must  she  strive  to  vake  ! 

XV. 

The  Coavent  bells  are  ringing, 

But  mournlully  and  slow  ; 
In  the  grey  stjuare  turret  swinging, 

With  a  deei)  sound,  to  and  tro. 
Heavily  to  the  heart  they  go  ! 

Hark  !  the  hymn  is  singing — 
The  song  for  the  dead  below, 

Or  the  living  who  shall  shortly  be  so  ! 
For  a  departing  being's  soul 

The  death-hymn  peals  and  the  hollow  bells  knoll ; 
He  is  near  his  mortal  goal ; 
Kneeling  attlie  Friar's  knee  ; 
Sad  to  hear — and  piteous  to  see — 
Kneeling  on  tlie  bare  cold  ground, 
With  the  block  before  and  the  guards  around — 
And  the  heiidsman  witli  his  bare  aim  ready, 
That  the  blow  may  be  both  swift  and  steady, 
Feels  if  the  axe  be  sharp  and  true — 
Since  he  set  its  edge  anew  : 
While  the  crowd  in  a  speechless  circle  gather 
To  see  the  Son  fall  by  the  doom  of  the  Father... 

XVI. 

«  If  is  a  lovely  hour  as  yet 

Before  the  summer  sun  shall  set, 
\Vliich  rose  upon  tliat  heavy  day, 
And  mocked  it  with  liis  steadiest  ray  ; 
Aiul  his  evening  beams  are  shed 
Full  on  Hugo's  fated  Lend, 
As  his  last  cojifession  pouring 
'I'o  the  monk,  his  doom  deploring 
in  penitential  holiness. 
He  bends  to  hear  his  accents  bless 
Willi  absolution  .'-uch  as  may 
Wipe  our  mortal  stains  uway. 


PARISINA.  4»» 

That  high  sun  on  his  head  did  glisten 
As  he  there  did  bow  and  listen — 
And  the  rings  of  chesnut  hair 
Curled  hair  down  his  neck  so  bare  ; 
But  brighter  still  the  beam  was  thrown 
Upon  the  axe  which  near  him  shone 

With  a  clear  and  ghastly  glitter 

Oh  I  that  parting  hour  was  bitter  ! 
Even  the  stern  stood  chilled  with  awe  : 
Dark  the  crime,  and  just  the  law — 
Yet  they  shuddered  as  they  saw. 

XVII. 

The  parting  prayers  are  said  and  over 

Of  that  I'alse  son — and  daring  lover  ! 

His  beads  and  sins  are  all  recounted, 

His  hours  to  their  last  minute  mounted — 

His  niai»tling  cloak  before  was  stripped, 

His  bright  brown  locks  must  now  be  clipped, 

'Tis  done — all  closely  are  ihey  shorn— 

The  vest  which  till  this  moment  worn— 

The  scarf  which  Parisina  gave — 

Must  not  adorn  him  to  the  grave, 

Even  that  must  now  be  thrown  aside, 

And  o'er  his  eyes  the  kerchief  tied  ; 

But  no — that  last  indignity 

Shall  ne'er  approa('li  his  haughty  eye. 

All  feelings  seemingly  subdued, 

In  deep  disdain  were  half  renewed, 

\\'hen  headman's  hands  prepared  to  bind 

Those  eyes  which  would  not  brook  such  blind  :• 

As  if  they  dared  not  look  on  death. 

"  No — yours  my  forfeit  blood  and  bieath — 

''  These  hands  are  chained — but  let  me  die 

"At  least  with  an  unshackled  eye — 

"  Strike  :" — and  as  the  word  he  said, 

{Jpon  the  block  he  bowed  his  head  ; 

These  the  last  accents  Hugo  spoke  : 

"Strike" — and  flasliii-.^  fell  the  stroke — 

Rolled  the  head — and,  gushing,  sunk 

Back  the  stained  and  heaving  trunk, 

In  the  dust,  which  each  deep  vein 

Slaked  with  its  ensanguined  rain  ; 

His  eyes  and  lips  a  inotnent  (juiver, 

Convulsed  and  i|iiick— then  fix  for  uver 


£00  PARISINA. 

He  died,  as  erring  man  should  die, 

Without  disphiy,  without  parade  ; 

Meelily  had  he  bowed  and  prayed, 

As  not  disdaining  priestly  aid. 

Nor  desperate  ol'  all  hope  on  high. 

And  while  before  the  Prior  kneeling. 

His  heart  was  weaned  I'rom  earthly  leeling  } 

His  wrathful  sire— his  paramour — 

What  were  they  in  such  an  hour? 

No  more  reproach— no  more  despair  ; 

No  thought  but  heaven—  no  word  but  prayer — 

Save  the  few  which  from  him  broke. 

When,  bared  to  meet  the  headman's  stroke. 

He  claimed  to  die  with  eyes  unbound, 

His  sole  adieu  to  those  around. 

xvni, 

still  as  the  lips  that  closed  in  death. 

Each  gazer's  bosom  held  his  breath: 

But  yet,  afar,  from  man  to  man, 

A  colli  electric  shiver  ran. 

As  down  the  deadly  blow  descended 

On  him  whose  lile  and  love  thus  ended  ; 

And  with  a  hushing  sound  comprest, 

A  sigh  shrunk  back  on  every  breast ; 

Rut  no  more  thrilling  noise  rose  there. 

Beyond  the  blow  that  to  the  block 

Pierced  through  with  forced  and  sullen  shock, 

Save  one  : — what  cleaves  the  silent  au- 

So  madly  shrill — so  passing  wild  ? 

That,  as  a  mother's  o'er  her  child, 

Done  to  death  by  sudden  blow, 

To  the  sky  these  accents  go, 

Like  a  soul's  in  endless  woe. 

Through  Azo's  palace-lattice  driven. 

That  horrid  voice  ascends  (o  heaven. 

And  every  eye  is  turned  thereon  ; 

But  sound  andsiglit  alike  are  gone  ! 

Jt  was  a  woman's  shriek— and  ne'er 

In  niadlier  accents  rose  despair; 

And  those  who  heard  it,  as  it  past. 

In  mercy  wished  it  were  the  last. 

XIX. 

Hugo  is  fallen  ;  and,  from  that  hour. 
No  more  in  palace,  hall,  oc  bower, 


t  PARISINA.  501 

Was  Parisiiiii  lieunl  or  seen  : 

Her  name — as  ifslie  ne'er  had  been  — 

Was  banished  from  each  lip  and  ear,' 

Like  words  of  wantonness  or  fear  ; 

And  from  Prince  Azo's  voice,  by  none 

Was  mention  heard  of  wife  or  son  ; 

No  tomb  —no  niemor}-  had  they  ; 

Theirs  was  unconsecrated  chiy  ; 

At  least  the  l^niuht's  who  died  that  day. 

But  Parisina's  fate  lies  hid 

Like  dust  beneath  the  cofTm  lid  : 

\^'hether  in  convent  she  abode. 

And  won  to  heaven  her  dreary  road, 

By  blii;lUe(i  and  remorseful  years 

Of  scourge,  and  last,  and  sleepless  tears  ; 

Or  if  she  fell  by  bowl  or  steel. 

For  that  dark  love  she  dared  to  feel ; 

Or  if,  upon  the  moment  smote, 

She  died  by  tortures  less  remote  ; 

Like  him  she  saw  upon  the  block. 

With  heart  that  shared  the  headman's  shock. 

In  quickened  brokenness  that  came, 

In  pity,  o'er  her  shattered  frame, 

None  knew—  and  none  can  ever  know  ; 

But  whatsoe'er  its  end  below. 

Her  life  begun  and  closed  in  woe  !  (3) 

XX. 

And  Azo  found  another  bride, 

And  goodly  sons  grew  by  his  side  ; 

But  none  so  lovely  and  so  brave 

As  hirn  who  withered  in  the  grave  ; 

Or  if  they  were — on  his  cold  eye 

Their  growth  but  glanced  unheeded  by, 

Or  noticed  with  a  smothered  sigh. 

But  never  tear  his  cheek  descended, 

And  never  smile  his  brow  unbended  ; 

A  nd  o'er  that  fair  broad  brow  were  wrought 

Tlie  intersected  lines  of  thought  ; 

Those  furrows  which  the  burning  share 

Of  Sorrow  plougiis  untimely  there  ; 

Scars  of  the  lacerating  mind 

Which  the  Soul's  war  doth  leave  behind. 

He  was  past  all  mirth  or  woe  : 

Nothing  more  remained  below, 

But  sleepless  nights  and  heavy  days, 

A  Blind  all  dead  to  scorn  or  praise, 


502  PARI  SIN  A. 

A  heart  which  shuniieil  itself — atid  yet 

That  would  not  yiekl— nor  could  forget, 

Which  when  it  least  appeared  to  melt, 

Tiilently  thouo;ht— intensely  felt  : 

Tiie  ileepest  ice  which  ever  iroze 

Can  only  o'er  the  siiri'ace  close — 

The  living  stream  lies  quick  helow, 

And  flows— and  cannot  cease  to  flow. 

Still  was  his  sealed-np  bosom  haunted 

By  thouglits  which  Nature  hatli  implanted  ; 

Too  deeply  rooted  thence  to  vanish, 

Howe'er  our  stifled  tears  we  banish  ; 

When  struggling  as  they  rise  to  start, 

We  check  tliose  waters  of  the  heart, 

They  are  not  dried — those  tears  unshed 

But  flow  back  to  the  fountain  head,    " 

And  resting  in  their  spring  more  pure, 

For  ever  in  its  depth  endure. 

Unseen,  unwept,  but  uncongealed, 

And  cherished  most  where  least  revealed. 

With  inward  starts  of  feeling  left. 

To  throb  o'er  those  of  life  bereft; 

Without  the  power  to  fill  again 

The  desart  gap  which  made  his  pain  ; 

Without  the  hope  to  meet  them  where 

United  souls  shall  gladness  share, 

With  all  the  consciousness  that  he 

Had  only  passed  a  just  decree  ; 

That  they  had  wrought  their  doom  of  ill. 

Yet  Azo's  age  was  wretched  still. 

The  tainted  branches  of  the  tree. 

If  lopped  with  care,  a  strength  may  give, 

By  which  the  rest  shall  bloom  and  live 

All  greenly  fresh  and  wildly  free. 

But  if  the  lighting,  in  its  wrath. 

The  waving  boughs  with  fury  scathe. 

The  massy  trunk  the  ruin  feels, 

And  never  more  a  leaf  reveals. 


NOTES  TO  PARISIXA. 
—»»♦•««♦■ — 

(1) 

^s  twilight  melts  beneath  the  moon  away. 
The  lines  contained  in  Section  I.  were  printed  as  set  to  music 
some  time  since  :  but  belono^ed  to  the  poem  where  they  now 
appear,  the  greater  part  of  which  was  composed  prior  to  "  Lara-"' 
and  other  compositions  since  published. 

(2) 

That  should  have  won  as  haitghf  a  crest. 

Haught — haughty—"  Away  Arn/^A^  man,  thou  art  insnUing 
me."  S/ia/csjjeare,  Richard  II. 

(3.) 

Her  life  began  and  closed  in  woe. 

"  This  turned  out  a  calamitous  year  lor  the  people  of  Fer- 
rara,  lor  lliere  occurred  a  very  tragical  event  i:i  the  court  ol 
tlieir  sovereign.  Our  annals,  botii  piiuled  and  in  manuscript, 
with  the  exception  of  the  unpolisliod  and  negligent  work  of 
Sardi,  and  <nie  other,  have  given  the  following  relation  of  it, 
from  wliicli,  however,  are  rejected  many  details,  and  especially 
the  narrative  of  Bandelli,  who  wrote  a  century  afterwards,  and 
who  does  not  accoril  with  the  contemporary  historians. 

"  By  the  abovenientioiied  Stella  dell'  Assasslno,  the  Marquis, 
ill  the  year  140;j,  had  a  son  called  ('go,  a  ln'anlifu!  and  inge- 
nuous youlb.  Parisiiia  Malatesla,  seconil  wile  of  Niccolo,  like 
the  generality  of  slep-motheis,  treated  him  with  little  kindness 
to  the  infinite  regret  of  tlie  Manpiis,  wiio  regarded  him  with 
loud  partiality.  One  day  she  asked  leave  of  her  husband  to 
undertake  a  certain  journey,  to  wiiich  he  consented,  but  upon 
condition  that  I'go  should  bear  her  company  ;  for  he  hoped  by 
these  means  to  induce  lier,  in  the  end,  to  lay  aside  the  obstinate 
aversion  which  she  had  conceived  against  tiini.  And  indeed  tiis 
intent  was  accomplished  hut  too  well,  since,  during  the  journey 
she  not  only  divested  lierM-lf  of  all  her  hatred,  but  fell  into  the 
opposite  extreme.      After  their   return,  the   Marquis  hud  no 


504  NOTEB    TO    TARISINA. 

longer  any  occasion  to  renew  his  former  reproofs.  Tt  happened 
one  (lay  that  a  servant  of  the  Mcirqiiis,  named  Zoese,  or,  as 
some  call  iiim,  Giorgio,  passing  before  the  apartments  of 
Parisina,  saw  going  out  from  them  one  of  her  chamber-maids, 
all  terrified  and  in  tears.  Asking  the  reason,  she  told  him  that 
her  mistress,  for  some  slight  offence,  had  been  beating  her ; 
and,  giving  vent  to  her  rage,  she  added,  that  she  could  easily 
be  revenged,  if  she  chose  to  make  known  the  criminal  famili- 
arity which  subsisted  between  Parisina  and  her  step-son.  The 
servant  took  note  of  the  words,  and  related  them  to  hii 
master.  He  was  astonmled  thereat,  but,  scarcely  believing 
his  ears,  he  assured  himself  of  the  fact,  alas  I  too  clearly, 
on  the  18tb  of  May,  by  looking  through  a  hole  made  in 
the  ceiling  of  his  wife's  chamber.  Instantly  he  broke  into 
a  furious  rage,  and  arrested  both  of  them,  together  with 
Aldobrandino  Rangoni,  of  Modena,  her^ gentleman,  and 
also,  as  some  say,  two  of  the  women  of  her  cliamber,  as  abet- 
tors of  this  sinful  act.  He  on'ered  them  lobe  brouglit  to  a 
hasty  trial,  desiring  the  judges  to  pronounce  sentence,  in  fhe 
accustomed  forms,  upon  the  culprits.  This  sentence  was  death. 
Some  there  were  that  bestirred  themselves  in  favour  of  the  de- 
linquents, and,  amongst  olhers,  Ugoccion  Contrario,  who  was 
all  powerful  with  Niccolo,  and  also  liis  aged  and  much  deserving 
minister,  Alberto  dal  Sale.  Roth  of  these,  their  tears  flowing 
down  their  checks,  and  upon  their  knees,  implored  him  for 
mercy;  adducing  whatever  reasons  they  could  suggest  for 
sparing  the  ofTendtArs,  besides  those  motives  of  honour  and  de- 
cency which  might  persuade  him  to  conceal  from  Ihe  public  so 
scandalous  a  deed.  But  his  rage  made  him  inflexible,  and,  on 
the  instant,  he  commanded  that  the  sentence  should  be  put  in 
execution. 

"  It  was,  Ihen,  in  the  prisons  of  the  castle,  and  exactly  in 
those  frightful  dungeons  which  are  seen  at  1his  day  beneath  the 
chamber  called  the  Aurora,  al  liie  loot  of  Ihe  Lion's  tower,  at 
the  lop  of  the  street  Gioveca,  lliat  on  the  niajht  of  the  twenty- 
first  oi'  May  were  beheaded,  tirst,  IJgo,  and  afterwards  Parisina. 
Zoese,  he  that  accused  her,  conducted  the  latter  under  his  arm 
to  the  place  of  punishment.  She,  all  along,  fancied  that  she  was 
to  be  thrown  into  a  pit,  and  asked  at  every  step,  whether  she 
wns  yet  come  to  the  spot?  She  was  told  that  her  punisliment 
was  ihe  axe.  She  inquired  what  was  become  of  Ugo,  and  re- 
ceived for  answer,  tiiat  he  wns  already  dead;  at  the  which, 
sighing  grievously,  she  exclaimed,  '  Now,  then,  I  wish  not 
myself  to  live  ;'  and,  being  come  to  the  block,  she  stripped  her- 
self witii  her  own  hamis  of  all  her  ornaments,  and  wrJ!|)i)ing  a 
cloth  round  her  head,  submitted  to  the  fatal  stroke,  which  ter- 
minated the  cruel  scene.  The  same  was  done  with  Rangoni, 
who,  together  with  the   olhers,  according  to  two  calendars  in 


,  MOTES    TO    PARISIiXA.  iOS 

the  library  of  St.  Francesco,   was  buried  in  the  cemetery  of 
that  convent.     Nothing  else  is  known  respecting  the  women. 

"  The  Marquis  kept  watch  the  whole  of  that  dreadful  night, 
and,  as  he  was  walking  backwards  and  forwards,  inquired  of 
the  captain  of  the  caslle  if  Ugo  was  dead  yet  ?  who  answered 
him.  Yes.  He  then  gave  himself  up  to  the  most  desperate  la- 
mentations, exclaiming,  '  Oh  !  that  I  too  were  dead,  since  I 
have  been  hurried  on  to  resolve  thus  against  my  own  Ugo  !' 
And  then  gnawing  with  his  teeth  a  cane  which  he  had  in  his 
handj  he  passed  the  rest  of  the  night  in  sighs  and  in  tears, 
calling  frequently  upon  his  own  dear  Ugo.  On  the  following 
day,  calling  to  mind  that  it  would  be  necessary  to  make  public 
his  justification,  seeing  tlmt  the  transaction  could  not  be  kept 
secret,  he  ordered  the  narrative  to  be  drawn  out  upon  paper, 
and  sent  it  to  all  the  courts  of  Italy. 

"  On  receiving  this  advice,  the  Doge  of  Venice,  Francesco 
Foscari,  gave  orders,  but  without  publishing  his  reasons,  that 
stop  should  be  put  to  the  preparations  for  a  tournament,  which 
under  the  auspices  of  the  Marquis,  and  at  the  expense  of  the 
city  of  Padua,  was  about  to  take  place  in  the  square  of  St. 
Mark,  in  order  to  celebrate  his  advancement  to  the  ducal 
chair. 

"  The  Marquis,  in  addition  to  what  he  had  already  done, 
from  some  unaccountable  burst  of  vengeance,  commanded 
that  as  many  of  the  married  women  as  were  well  known  to 
him  to  be  faithless,  like  his  Parisina,  should,  like  her, 
be  beheaded.  Amongst  others,  Baiberina,  or  as  some  call  her 
Laodamia  Romei,  wife  of  the  court  judge,  underwent  this 
sentence,  at  the  usual  place  of  execution,  that  is  to  say,  in  tha 
quarter  of  Giacomo,  opposite  the  present  fortress,  beyond  St. 
Paal's.  It  cannot  be  told  how  strange  appeared  this  proceeding 
in  a  prince,  who  considering  his  own  disposition,  should,  as  it 
seemed,  have  been  in  such  casses  most  indulgent.  Some, 
however,  there  were,  who  did  not  fail  to  commend  him."* 


•  Frizzi — History  of  Ferrara. 


END  OF  PARISINA. 


2  U 


THK 

J 


PRISONER  OF  CHILLON 

A    TABLE. 


-♦♦- 


SONNET   ON   CHILLON. 

Eternal  spirit  of  the  chainless  mind  ! 

Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty !  thou  art, 

For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart — 

The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind  ; 
And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consign'd — 

To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom, 

Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom, 

And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 
Chillon  !  ihy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar — for  'twas  trod. 

Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 
Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 

By  Bonnivard  !  ( 1 )—  May  none  those  mark*  eflace  \ 

For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  (Jod. 


THE 

PRISONER  OF  CHILLON, 


— ►►►♦«»44*— 


I. 


My  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years, 

Nor  grew  it  white 

In  a  single  night,  (2) 
As  men's  have  grown  from  sudden  fears  : 
My  limbs  are  bow'd,  though  not  with  toil, 

But  rusted  with  a  vile  repose. 
For  they  have  been  a  dungeon's  spoil, 
And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 
To  whom  the  goodly  earth  and  air 
Are  bann'd,  and  barr'd  -forbidden  fare  ; 
But  this  was  for  my  lather's  faith 
I  suiler'd  chains  and  courted  death  ; 
That  father  perished  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake  ; 
And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 
In  darkness  found  a  dwelling-place  ; 
W«  were  seven — who  now  are  one. 

Six  in  youth,  and  one  in  age, 
Fiiiish'd  as  they  had  bei^un. 

Proud  of  Persecution's  rage  ; 
One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field, 
Tlieir  belief  with  blood  have  seal'd  ; 
Dying  us  their  father  died. 
For  the  God  their  foes  denied  ; 
Three  were  in  a  dungeon  cast, 
Of  whom  this  wreck  Is  left  the  last. 
2   U  2 


510  THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

n. 

There  are  seven  pillars  of  gothic  mold, 
In  Chillon's  dungeons  deep  and  old, 
There  are  seven  columns,  massy  and  gray. 
Dim  with  a  dull  iniprison'd  ray, 
.A  sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way, 
And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 
Of  the  thick  wall  is  fallen  and  left ; 
Creeping  o'er  the  floor  so  damp, 
Like  a  marsh's  meteor  lamp  : 
And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring. 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain  ; 
That  iron  is  a  cankering  thing. 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain, 
With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away,^ 
Till  I  have  done  with  this  new  day, 
,  Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes. 
Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 
For  years—  I  cannot  count  them  o'er, 
i  lost  their  long  and  heavy  score 
When  my  last  brother  droop'd  and  died. 
And  I  lay  living  by  his  side. 

III. 

They  chain'd  us  each  to  a  column  stone> 
And  we  were  three— yet,  each  alone  : 
AVe  could  not  move  a  single  pace, 
We  could  not  see  each  other's  face, 
^But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 
That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight; 
And  thus  together — yet  apart, 
Felter'd  in  hand,  but  pined  in  heart ; 
Twas  still  some  solace  in  the  death 
Of  the  jiure  elements  of  earth. 
To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech, 
And  each  turn  comforter  to  each 
With  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old. 
Or  song  heroically  bold  ; 
But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 
Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone. 
An  echo  of  the  duiigeon-stone, 
A  grating  sound — not  full  and  free 
As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be  ; 
It  might  be  fancy — but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  like  our  own. 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON.  511 


W. 

]  was  the  eldest  of  the  three,. 
AnJ  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest 
1  ought  to  do — and  did  my  best — 
And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 

The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved, 
Because  our  mother's  brow  was  given 
To  him — with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven, 
For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved  ; 
And  truly  might  it  be  distrest 
To  see  such  bird  in  such  a  nest ; 
For  he  was  beautiful  as  day — 
( When  day  was  beautiful  to  me 
As  to  young  eagles,  being  free)  — 
A  polar  day,  which  will  not  see 
A  sunset  till  ils  summer  's  gone. 

Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light. 
The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun  : 

And  thus  he  was  as  pure  and  bright, 
And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay, 
With  tears  for  iiou!i,-ht  but  other's  ills, 
And  then  they  flow'd  like  mountain  nils, 
Unless  he  could  assuage  the  woe 
Which  he  abhorr'd  to  view  below. 


The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind. 
But  form'd  to  combat  with  his  kind  ; 
Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a  mood 
Which  'gainst  the  world  in  war  had  stood. 
And  perish'd  in  the  foremost  rank 

With  joy  :  —but  not  in  chains  to  pine  : 
His  spirit  wither'd  with  their  clank, 

I  saw  it  silently  decline — 

And  so  perchance  in  sooth  did  mine  ; 
But  yet  I  forced  it  on  to  cheer 
Those  relics  of  a  home  so  dear. 
He  was  a  hunter  of  the  hills. 

Had  foUow'd  there  the  deer  and  wolf; 

To  him  this  dungeon  was  a  gulf. 
And  fetter'd  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 

VI. 

Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls  : 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow  ; 


512  THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

Thus  much  the  fathom-line  was  sent 
From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement,  (3) 

Which  round  about  the  wave  enthralls  : 
A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made — and  like  a  living  grave. 
Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 
The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay, 
We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day  ; 

Sounding  o'er  our  heads  it  knock'd  ; 
And  I  have  felt  the  winter's  spray 
Wash  through  the  bars  when  winds  were  high 
And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky  ; 

And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rock'd, 

And  I  have  felt  It  shake,  unshock'd, 
Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  ilealh  that  would  have  set  me  free. -. 

vn. 

1  said  my  nearer  brother  pined, 
T  said  his  mighty  heart  declined. 
He  loathed  and  put  away  his  food  ; 
It  was  not  that  'twas  course  and  rude. 
For  we  were  used  to  hunter's  fare. 
And  for  the  like  had  little  care  : 
The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  goat 
Was  changed  lor  water  from  the  moat 
Our  bread  was  such  as  captive's  tears 
Have  moisfen'd  many  a  thousand  years 
Since  man  liist  pent  his  fellow  men 
Like  brutes  within  an  iron  den  : 
But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him  ? 
These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb  ; 
My  brother's  soul  was  ol  that  mold 
Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  cold, 
Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 
The  range  of  the  steep  mountain's  side  ; 
But  why  delay  the  truth  ?  -he  died. 
I  saw,  and  could  not  hold  his  head. 
Nor  reach  his  dying  hand — nor  dead. 
Though  hard  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain. 
To  rend  and  gnash  my  bonds  in  twain. 
He  died — and  they  unlock'd  his  chain. 
And  scoop'd  for  him  a  shallow  grave 
Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave. 
I  begg'd  them,  as  a  boon,  1o  lay 
His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON.  ^1» 

Might  shine — it  was  a  foolish  thought. 
But  then  within  my  l)rain  it  wrought, 
That  even  in  death  his  treeborn  breast 
In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest. 
I  might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer — 
They  coldly  laugh'd— and  laid  him  there: 
The  flat  and  turtiess  earlh  above 
The  being  we  so  much  did  love  ; 
His  empty  chain  above  it  leant, 
Such  murder's  fitting  monument ! 

VIII. 

But  he,  the  favourite  and  the  flower. 
Most  cherish'd  since  his  natal  hour. 
His  mother's  image  in  fair  face. 
The  infant  love  of  all  his  race, 
His  martyr'd  father's  dearest  thought, 
My  latest  care,  for  whom  I  sought 
To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 
Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free ; 
He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untired 
A  spirit  natural  or  inspired — 
He,  too,  was  strujck,  and  day  by  daj 
Was  wither'd  on  the  stalk  away. 
Oh  God  !  it  is  a  fearful  thing 
To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 
In  any  shape,  in  any  mood  : — 
I've  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood, 
I've  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean 
Strive  with  a  swoln  convulsive  motion, 
I've  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 
Of  Sin  delirious  with  its  dread : 
But  these  were  horrors — this  was  woe 
Unmix'd  with  such  — but  sure  and  slow  : 
He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek, 
So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak, 
So  tearless,  yet  so  tender — kind, 
And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind  ; 
With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom- 
Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb, 
Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 
As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray — 
An  eye  of  most  transparent  light, 
'I'hat  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright, 
And  not  a  word  of  murmur — not 
A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot — 
A  little  tiilk  of  belter  days, 
A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise. 


514  THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

For  I  was  sunk  in  silence — lost 

In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most; 

And  then  the  sipfhs  he  would  suppress, 

Of  faintinc;  Nature's  feebleness, 

More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less  : 

I  listen'd,  but  I  could  not  hear — 

I  cali'd,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear, 

I  knew  'twas  hopeless,  but  my  dread 

Would  not  be  thus  admonished  ; 

I  cali'd,  and  thought  I  heard  a  sonnd — 

I  burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound, 

And  rush'd  to  him  : — I  found  him  not. 

/  only  stirred  in  this  black  spot, 

/only  lived — /  only  drew 

The  accursed  breath  of  dungeon  dew  ; 

The  last— the  sole— the  dearest  link 

Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink 

Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race, 

^Vas  broken  in  this  fatal  place. 

One  on  the  earth,  and  one  beneath — 

My  brothers— both  had  ceased  to  breathe  : 

J  took  that  hand  which  lay  so  still, 

Alas  !  my  own  was  full  as  chill ; 

I  had  not  strength  to  stir  or  strive, 

But  felt  that  I  was  still  alive — 

A  frantic  feeling,  when  we  know 

That  what  we  love  shall  ne'er  be  so. 

I  know  not  why, 

I  could  not  die, 
I  had  no  earthly  hope — but  faith. 
And  that  forbade  a  selfish  death. 

IX. 

What  next  befell  me  then  and  there 
I  know  not  well — I  never  knew — 
First  came  the  loss  of  light,  and  air, 

And  then  of  darkness  too  : 
I  had  no  thought,  no  feeling — none-^ 
Among  the  stones  I  stood  a  stone, 
And  was  scarce  conscious  what  I  wist, 
As  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist. 
For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  gray, 
It  was  not  night — it  was  not  day. 
It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light, 
So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight. 
But  vacancy  absorbing  space. 
And  fixedness — without  a  place ; 
There  were  no  stars — no  earth — no  t  ime — 
No  check — no  change — no  good — no  crime- 


'    THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON.  515 

But  silence,  and  a  stirless  breath 
Whicti  neither  was  of  life  nor  death ; 
A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness, 
Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless  ! 

X. 

A  light  broke  in  upon  my  brain — 

It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird  ; 
It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again. 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard. 
And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise, 
And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery ; 
But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track. 
I  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly  round  me  as  before, 
I  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  eone, 
But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came 
That  bird  was  perch 'd,  as  fond  and  tame, 

And  tamer  than  upon  the  tree  ; 
A  lovely  bird,  with  azure  wings. 
And  song  that  said  a  thousand  things. 

And  seem'd  to  say  them  all  for  me  ! 
I  never  saw  its  like  before, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  its  likeness  more  : 
It  seem'd  like  me  to  want  a  mate, 
But  was  not  half  so  desolate. 
And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when 
None  lived  to  love  me  so  again. 
And  cheering  from  my  dungeon's  brink. 
Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 
I  know  not  if  it  late  were  free. 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine. 
But  knowing  A^ell  captivity, 

Sweet  bird  I  could  not  wish  for  thine  ! 
Or  if  it  were  in  winged  guise, 
A  visitant  from  Paradise  ; 
For — Heaven  forgive  that  thought !  the  wLilo 
Which  made  me  both  lo  weep  and  smile  : 
I  sometimes  deemed  tiiat  it  might  be 
My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me  ; 
But  then  at  last  away  it  Hew, 
And  then  'twas  mortal — well  I  knew, 
For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown. 
And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone, — 


.^1«  THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

Lone— as  Ibe  the  corse  within  its  shroud, 
Lone— as  a  solitary  cloud, 

A  single  cloud  on  a  sunny  day, 
While  all  Ihe  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 
A  frown  upon  the  atmosphere, 
That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue,  and  earth  is  gay. 

XL 

A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate, 
My  keepers  grew  compassionate, 
I  know  not  what  had  made  them  so. 
They  were  inured  to  sights  of  woe. 
But  so  it  was  : — my  broken  chain 
With  links  unfasten'd  did  remain,     •> 
And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 
Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side, 
And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 
And  tread  it  over  every  part ; 
And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one, 
Returning  where  my  walk  begun. 
Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod. 
My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod  ; 
For  if  I  thought  with  heedless  tread 
My  step  profaned  their  lowly  bed. 
My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick. 
And  my  crushed  heart  felt  blind  and  sick. 

XIL 

I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall, 

It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape, 
For  I  had  buried  one  and  all. 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape; 
And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  be 
A  wider  prison  unto  me  : 
No  child — no  sire — no  kin  had  I, 
No  partner  in  my  misery ; 
I  thought  of  this,  and  I  was  glad. 
For  thought  of  them  had  made  me  mad  ; 
But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 
To  my  burred  windows,  and  to  bend 
Once  more  upon  the  mountains  high, 
The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye. 


THE  PRISONER  OF    CHILLON.  51T 


XHI. 

I  saw  them — nntl  they  were  the  same, 
They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  frame  ; 
I  saw  their  Ihousand  yeiirs  of  snow 
On  high — their  wide  long  lake  below, 
And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow; 
1  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 
O'er  channell'd  rock  and  broken  bush; 
I  saw  the  white-wall'd  distant  town, 
And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down  ; 
And  then  there  was  a  little  isle,  (4) 
Which  in  my  very  lace  did  smile. 

The  only  one  in  view  ; 
A  small  green  isle,  it  seem'd  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor, 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees. 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing. 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  growing, 

Of  gentle  breath  and  hue. 
The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall. 
And  they  seem'd  joyous  each  and  all ; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast, 
Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seem'd  to  fly, 
And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye. 
And  I  felt  troubled — and  would  fain 
I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain  ; 
And  when  I  did  descend  again, 
The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode 
Fell  on  me  as  a  heav)'  load  ; 
It  was  as  is  a  new-dug  grave, 
Closing  on  one  we  sought  to  save. 
And  yet  my  gLiuce  too  much  opprest. 
Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest. 

XIV. 

It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days, 

I  kept  no  count — I  took  no  note, 
I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise. 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote  ; 
At  last  men  came  to  set  me  free, 

I  ask'd  not  why,  and  reck'd  not  where, 
It  was  at  length  tlie  same  to  me, 
Felter'd  or  fetterless  to  be, 

I  learn'd  to  love  despair. 

2  X 


518  .  THE  PRISONER  OF    CHILLON. 

And  tluis  when  they  appeared  at  last. 
And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast, 
These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 
A  hermitage— and  all  my  own  ! 
And  half  I  felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a  second  home  : 
With  spiders  I  had  friendship  made, 
And  watch'd  them  in  their  sullen  trade, 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play. 
And  why  should  1  feel  less  than  they  ? 
We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place. 
And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race, 
Had  power  to  kill,  yet  strange  to  tell ! 
In  quiet  we  had  learned  to  dwell — 
My  vejy  chains  and  I  grew  friends, 
So  much  a  long  communion  tends 
To  make  us  what  we  are  :— even  I 
Regain'd  my  freedom  with  a  sigh. 


NOTES 

TO    THE 

PRISONER  OF  CHILLOX. 

(!•) 
By  Bonniuard ! — mat/  none  those  marks  efface ! 

Franfois  de  Bonnivard,  fils  de  Louis  de  Bonivard,  orisrinaire 
de  Seyssel  et  Seigneur  de  Lunes,  naquit  en  1496  ;  il  fit  ses 
etudes  a  Turin:  en  1510  Jean  Ainie  de  Bonivard,  son  oncle, 
Iiii  resigna  le  Prieur*^  de  St.  Victor,  qui  aboutissoit  aux  mursde 
Geneve,  et  qui  lornioit  un  benefice  considerable. 

Ce  grand  liommme  (Bonivard  m^rite  ce  titre  par  la  force  de 
son  ame,  la  droiture  (ie  son  coeiir,  la  noblesse  de  ses  intentions, 
la  sagessede  ses  conseils,  le  courage  deses  demarches,  I'i^tendue 
de  ses  connaissances  et  la  vivacite  de  son  esprit,)  ce  gran  honi- 
me,  qui  excitera  I'admiration  de  tous  ceux  qu'une  vertu  hero- 
ique  pent  encore  emouvoir,  inspirera  encore  la  plus  vive  recon- 
naissance dans  lescoeursdesGenevois  qui  aiment  Geneve.  Boa- 
nivard  en  f'ut  toujours  un  des  plus  fermes  appuis  :  pour  assurer 
la  liberie  de  notre  Republique,  il  ne  craignit  pas  de  perdre 
souvent  la  sienue  ;  il  oublia  son  repos;  il  meprisa  ses  ricbesses; 
il  ne  negligea  rien  pour  affermir  le  bonheur  d'une  patrie  qu'il 
honorade  son  clioix:  des  ce  moment  il  la  cherit  corame  le  plus 
ze'le  de  ses  citojens  ;  il  la  servit  avec  I'intrepidite  d'un  heros, 
et  il  ecrivit  son  Ilistoire  avec  la  naivete  d'un  philosophe  et  la 
chaleur  d'un  patriote. 

11  dit  dans  le  commencement  de  son  histoirede  Gent^ve,  que, 
des  r/itil  cut  commence  de  lire  Vhistoire  des  nations,  il  se  sentit 
eutraine  par  son  goat  pour  les  Republiques,  dont  il  epousii 
toitjnurs  les  interets  :  c'est  ce  gofit  pour  la  liberte  que  lui  fit 
sans  doute  adopter  Geneve  pour  sa  patrie. 

Bonivard,  encore  jeune,  s'annon9a  hautement  comme  le 
delenseur  de  Geneve  contre  le  Due  de  Stivoye  et  I'Eveque. 

En  15)0,  Bonnivarddevient  le  marlyr  de  sa  patrie  :  Le  Due 
de  Sai^oye  etant  entre  dans  Geneve  avec  cinq  cent  hommes. 


520  NOTES   TO   THE   PRISONER   OF    CHILLON. 

BonnivarJ  craint  le  ressentiment  du  Due  ;  il  voiilut  se  retirera 
Fribtirg  pour  en  eviter  les  suites ;  mais  il  fut  trahi  par  deux 
honimes  qui  I'accompiijrnoient,  et  conduit  par  ordre  du  Prince 
a  Grolee,  oii  il  resta  prisonnier  pemlant  deux  ans.  Bonnivard 
eloit  niallieunnix  dans  ses  voyages  :  comme  ses  malheurs  n'a- 
voient  point  ralenti  son  zele  pour  Geneve,  i!  eloit  toujours  un 
ennemi  redoutable  pour  ceux  qui  la  nienayoient,  el  par  conse- 
quent il  devoit  etre  expose  a  Iturs  coups.  II  fut  recoutre  eu 
1530  sur  le  Jura  par  des  volcurs,  qui  Je  depouilleront,  et  qui 
le  mirent  encore  entre  les  mains  du  Due  de  Savoye :  ce  Prince 
le  fit  enfermer  dans  le  Chateau  de  Chillon,  ou  il  resta  sans  etre 
interroge  jusques  en  1536;  il  iut  alors  delivre  par  les  Bernois, 
qui  s'emjjarerent  du  Pays  de  Vaud. 

Bonnivard,  en  sortant  de  sa  captivite,  eut  le  plaisir  de  trou- 
ver  Geneve  libre  et  reformee  ;  la  Republiques'empressa  de  lui 
temoigner  sa  reconnaissance  et  de  le  dedonimager  de  maux 
qu'il  avoit  souflerts;  ellele  rejut  Bourgeois  de  la  ville  au  mois 
de  Juin  1536  ;  ella  lui  donna  la  maison  habitee  autrefois  par 
le  Vicaire-General,  et  elle  lui  assigna  une  pension  de  200ecus 
d'or  tant  qu'il  sejourneroit  a  Geneve.  II  fut  admis  dans  le 
Conseil  de  Deux-Cent  en  1537. 

Bonnivard  n'a  pas  fini  d'etre  utile :  apres  avoir  travaille  a 
rendre  Geneve  libre,  il  reussit  a  la  rendre  tolerante.  Bonnivard 
engagea  le  Conseil  a  accorder  aux  Ecclesiastiques  et  aux  pay- 
sans  un  terns  sufBsantpour  examiner  les  propositions  qu'on  leur 
faisoit;  il  reussit  par  sa  douceur  :  on  preciie  toujours  le  Cbris- 
tianisme  avec  succes  quand  on  le  preciie  avec  charite. 
-  Bonnivard  fut  savant ;  ses  manuscrits,  qui  sont  dans  la  Bib- 
liotlieque  publique,  prouvent  qu'il  avoit  bien  lu  les  auteurs 
classiques  latins,  et  qu'il  avoit  approlbndi  la  theologie  et  I'his- 
toire.  Ce  grand  bonime  aimoit  les  sciences,  et  il  crojoit 
qu'elles  pouvoient  faire  la  gloire  de  Geneve  ;  aussi  il  ne  negli- 
gea  rien  pour  les  fixer  dans  cette  ville  naissante ;  en  1551  il 
donna  sa  bibliotheque  au  public;  elle  fut  le  commencement  de 
iiotre  bibliotheque  publique ;  et  ces  livres  sont  en  partie  les 
rares  et  belles  editions  du  quinziemesiecle  qu'on  voit  dans  notre 
collection.  Enfin,  pendant  la  meme  annee,  ce  bon  patriote 
institua  la  Republique  son  heritiere,  a  condition  qu'elle  eni- 
ployeroit  ses  biens  a  eutretenir  le  college  dont  on  projettoit  la 
fondation. 

II  paroit  que  Bonnivard  mourut  en  1570  ;  mais  on  ne  pent 
I'assurer,  parce  qu'il  y  a  une  lacune  dans  le  Necrologe  depuis 
le  mois  du  Juillet  1570  jusques  en  1571. 

(2) 

In  a  single  night. 

Ludovico  Sforza,  and  others. — The  same  is  Jisserted  of  Marie 
Antoinette's,  the  wife  of  Louis  XVI.  though  not  in  quite  so 


NOTES    TO    THE    PRISONER    OF    CHILLOX.  521 

short  a  period.     Grief  is  said  to  have  the  same  effect :  to  such, 
and  not  to  fear,  this  change  in  hers  was  to  be  attributed. 

(3) 
From  CAt/hn's  snow-white  battlement. 

The  Chateau  de  Chillon  is  situated  between  Clarens  and 
Villeneuve,  which  last  is  at  one  extremity  of  the  Lake  of  Ge- 
neva. On  its  left  are  the  entrances  of  the  Rhone,  and  opposite 
are  the  heights  of  Meillerie  and  the  range  of  Alps  above  Bo- 
veret  and  St.  Gingo. 

Near  it,  on  a  hill  behind,  is  a  torrent ;  below  it,  washing  its 
walls,  the  lake  has  been  fathomed  to  the  depth  of  800  feet 
(French  measure) ;  within  it  are  a  range  of  dungeons,  in 
which  the  early  reformers,  and  subsequently  prisoners  of  state, 
were  confined.  Across  one  of  the  vaults  is  a  beam  black  with 
age,  on  which  we  were  informed  that  the  condemned  were 
formerly  executed.  In  the  cells  are  seven  pillars,  or,  rather 
eight,  one  being  half  merged  in  the  wall;  in  some  of  these 
are  rings  for  the  fetters  and  the  fettered  :  in  the  pavement  the 
steps  of  Bonnivard  have  left  their  traces — he  was  confined 
fiere  several  years. 

It  is  by  this  castle  that  Rousseau  has  fixed  the  catastrophe 
of  his  Heloise,  in  the  rescue  of  one  of  her  children  by  Julie 
from  the  water;  the  shock  of  which,  and  the  illness  produced 
by  the  immersion,  is  the  cause  of  her  death. 

The  chateau  is  large,  and  seen  along  the  lake  for  a  great 
distance.     The  walls  are  white. 

(4) 

And  then  there  vnts  a  little  isle. 

Between  the  entrances  of  the  Rhone  and  Villeneuve,  not 
far  from  Chillon,  is  a  very  small  island  ;  the  only  one  f  could 
perceive,  in  my  vo3'age  round  and  over  the  hike,  within  its 
circumference.  It  contains  a  few  trees  (I  think  not  above 
three),  and  from  its  singleness  and  diminutive  size  has  a  pecu- 
liar eflect  upon  the  view. 

When  the  foregoing  poem  was  composed  I  was  not  suffi- 
ciently aware  of  the  history  of  Bonnivard,  or  I  should  have 
endeavoured  to  dignify  the  suliject  by  an  attempt  to  celebrate 
his  courage  and  his  virtues.  Some  account  of  his  life  will  be 
found  in  a  note  appended  to  the  "  Sonnet  on  Cliillon,"  with 
which  I  have  been  furnished  liy  the  kindness  of  a  citizen  of  tliat 
Republic  which  is  still  proud  of  the  memory  of  a  man  worthy 
of  the  best  ages  of  ancient  freedom. 


£XD  OF  THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 
2X2 


\ 


B  E  P  P  O. 

A  VENETIAN  STORY. 


— ►»»•••«♦• — 

Rosalind.  Farewell,  Monsieur  Traveller :  Look,  you  lisp, 
and  wear  strange  suits  :  disable  all  the  benefits  of  your  own 
country ;  be  out  of  love  witb  your  Nativity,  and  almost  chide 
God  for  making  you  that  countenance  you  are ;  or  I  will  scarce 
think  that  you  have  swum  in  a  Gondola. 

As  You  Like  It,  Act  IV.  Sc.  I. 

Annotation  of  the  Commentators. 

That  is,  been  at  J'enice,  which  was  much  visited  by  the 
young  English  gentlemen  of  those  times,  and  was  then  what 
Paris  is  now — the  seat  of  all  dissoluteness.     S.  A . 


I. 

"Tis  known,  at  least  it  should  be,  that  throughout 

All  countries  oi  the  Catholic  persuasion, 
Some  weeks  before  Shrove  Tuesday  comes  about, 

The  people  take  their  fill  of  recreation, 
And  buy  repentance,  ere  they  grow  devout. 

However  high  their  rank,  or  low  their  station, 
With  fiddling,  feasting,  dancing,  drinking,  masquing, 
And  other  things  which  may  be  had  for  asking. 

11. 
The  moment  night  with  dusky  mantle  covers 

The  skies  (and  the  more  duskily  the  better). 
The  time  less  liked  by  liusbantis  than  by  lovers 

Begins,  and  prudery  llings  aside  her  letter ; 


*24  BEPPO, 

And  gaiety  on  restless  tiptoe  hovers, 

Giaf2:ling  with  hU  the  gallants  who  beset  hev; 
And  there  are  songs  and  quavers,  roaring,  humming, 
Guitars,  and  every  other  sort  of  strumming. 

iir. 

And  there  are  dresses  splendid,  but  fantastical. 

Masks  of  all  times  and  nations,  Turks  and  Jews, 
And  harlequins  and  clowns,  with  feats  gymnastical, 

Greeks,  Romans,  Yankee-doodles,  and  Hindoos  : 
All  kinds  of  dress,  except  the  ecclesiastical, 

All  people,  as  their  fancies  hit,  may  choose, 
But  no  one  in  these  parts  may  quiz  the  clerg}-, 
Therefore  take  heed,  ye  Freethinkers  !  I  charge  ye. 

TV. 
You'd  better  w-alk  about  begirt  with  briars,- 

Instead  of  coat  and  smallclothes,  than  put  on 
A  single  stitch  reflecting  upon  friars. 

Although  you  swore  it  only  was  in  fun  ; 
They'd  haul  you  o'er  the  coals,  and  stir  the  fires 

Of  Phlegethon  with  every  mother's  son. 
Nor  say  one  mass  to  cool  the  caldron's  bubble 
That  boil'd  your  bones,  unless  you  paid  them  double. 

V. 

But  saving  this,  you  may  put  on  whate'er 
You  like  by  way  of  doublet,  cape,  or  cloak, 

Such  as  in  Alonmouth-street,  or  in  Rag  Fair, 
Would  rig  you  out  in  seriousness  or  joke  ; 

And  even  in  Italy  such  places  are, 

With  prettier  name  in  softer  accents  spoke. 

For,  bating  Covent  Garden,  I  can  hit  on 

No  place  that's  call'd  "  Piazza"  in  Great  Britain. 

VI. 

This  feast  is  named  the  Carnival,  which  being 

Interpreted,  implies  "  farewell  to  flesh  ;" 
So  call'd,  because  the  nam.t^  r.nd  thing  agreeing. 

Through  Lent  they  live  on  fish  both  salt  and  Iresh. 
But  why  they  usher  Lent  with  so  much  glee  in 

Is  more  than  I  can  tell,  although  I  guess 
'Tis  as  we  take  a  glass  with  friends  at  parting, 
In  the  stage-coach  or  packet  just  at  starting. 

VIJ. 
And  thus  they  bid  farewell  to  carnal  dishes. 

And  solid  meats,  and  highly  spiced  ragouts. 
To  live  for  forty  days  on  ill-dress-"d  fishes, 

Because  they  have  no  sauces  to  their  stews^ 


BEPPO.  ^-'^ 

A  thin:?  which  causes  many  "poohs"  and  "pishes," 

And  several  oaths  (which  would  not  suit  the  Muse), 
From  travellers  accuslom'd  Aom  a  boj' 
To  eat  their  salmon,  at  the  least,  with  soy  ; 

VIII. 
And  therefore  humbly  I  would  recommend 

"  The  curious  in  fish-sauce,"  beiore  they  cross 
The  sea,  to  bid  IhL'ir  cook,  or  wile,  or  friend, 

Walk  or  ride  to  the  Stiand,  and  buy  in  gross 
(Or  if  set  out  befoveliand,  these  may  send 

By  any  means  least  liable  to  loss). 
Ketchup,  Soy,  Chili-vinegar,  and  Harvey, 
Or,  by  the  Lord  !  a  Lent  will  well  nigh  starve  ye  ; 

IX. 

That  is  to  say,  if  your  religion's  Roman, 

And  you  at  Rome  woidd  do  as  Romans  do, 
According  to  the  proverb, — although  no  man. 

If  foreign,  is  obliged  to  fast ;  and  you, 
If  protestant,  or  sickly,  or  a  woman, . 

AVould  rather  dine  in  sin  on  a  ragout— 
Dine,  and  be  d— d  !   I  dont  mean  to  be  coarse, 
But  that's  the  penalty,  to  say  no  worse. 

X. 
Of  all  the  places  where  the  Carnival 

Was  most  facetious  in  the  days  of  yore. 
For  dance,  and  song,  and  serenade,  and  ball. 

And  masque,  and  mime,  and  mystery,  and  more 
Than  I  have  time  to  tell  now,  or  at  all, 
Venice  the  bell  i'rom  every  city  bore, 
And  at  the  moment  when  I  fix  my  story, 
Tliat  sea-born  city  was  in  all  her  glory. 

XI. 
They've  pretty  faces  yet,  those  same  Venetians, 

Black  eyes,  ardi'd  i)rows,  and  sweet  expressions  still ; 
Such  as  of  old  were  copied  from  the  Grecians, 

In  ancient  arts  by  moderns  mimick'd  ill ; 
And  like  so  many  Venuses  of  Titian's 

(The  best's  at  Florence— see  it,  if  ye  will,) 
Thfey  look  when  leaning  over  the  balcony. 
Or  stepp'd  from  out  a  picture  by  Giorgione, 

XII. 
Whose  tints  are  truth  and  beauty  at  their  best ; 

And  when  you  to  Manfrini's  palace  go, 
That  picture  (howsoever  fine  the  rest) 
Is  loveliest  to  my  mind  of  all  the  show  ; 


~     536  BEPPO. 

It  may  perhaps  be  also  to  your  zest, 

And  that's  the  cause  I  rhyme  upon  it  so, 
'Tis  but  a  portrait  of  his  son,  and  wile, 
And  sell';  but  such  a  woman !  love  in  life  ! 

XIII. 

Love  in  full  life  and  length,  not  love  ideal. 

No,  nor  ideal  beauty,  that  fine  name. 
But  something  better  still,  so  very  real. 

That  the  sweet  model  must  have  been  the  same  ; 
A  thing  that  you  would  purchase,  beg,  or  steal, 

Wer't  not  impossible,  besides  a  shame  : 
The  face  recalls  some  face,  as  'twere  with  pain, 
You  once  have  seen,  but  ne'er  will  see  again  ; 

XIV. 

One  of  those  forms  which  flit  by  us,  when  we 
Are  young,  and  fix  our  eyes  on  every  face  ; 

And,  oh  !  the  loveliness  nt  times  we  see 
In  momentary  gliding,  the  soft  grace, 

The  youth,  the  bloom,  the  beauty  which  agree, 
In  many  a  nameless  being  we  retrace, 

Whose  course  and  home  we  knew  not,  nor  shall  know, 

Like  the  lost  Pleiad  (1)  seen  no  more  below. 

XV. 
I  said  that  like  a  picture  by  Giorgione 

Venetian  women  were,  and  so  they  are, 
Particularly  seen  from  a  balcony, 

(For  beauty  's  sometimes  best  set  off  afar) 
And  there,  just  like  a  heroine  of  Goldoni. 

They  peep  from  out  the  blind,  or  o'er  the  bar  ; 
And,  truth  to  say,  they're  mostly  very  pretty, 
And  rather  like  to  show  it — more's  the  pity  ! 

XVL 

For  glances  beget  ogles,  ogles  sighs. 

Sighs  wishes,  wishes  words,  and  words  a  letter, 

Which  flies  on  wings  of  light-heel'd  Mercuries, 
Who  do  such  things  because  they  know  no  better  ; 

And  then,  God  knows,  what  mischief  may  arise, 
When  love  links  two  young  people  in  one  fetter. 

Vile  assignations,  and  adulterous  beds. 

Elopements,  broken  vows,  and  hearts,  and  heads. 

XVII. 

Shakspeare  described  the  sex  in  Desdemona 
As  very  fair,  but  yet  suspect  in  fame, 

And  to  this  day  from  Venice  to  Verona 
Snch  matters  may  be  probably  the  same, 


,  jBEPPO.  62T 

Except  that  since  those  times  was  never  known  a 

Husband  whom  mere  suspicion  could  inflame 
To  suffocate  a  wile  no  more  than  twenty, 
Because  she  had  "  a  cavalier  servante." 

XVIII. 

Their  jealousy  (if  Ihey  are  ever  jealous) 

Is  of  a  fair  complexion  altogether, 
Not  like  that  sooty  devil  of  Othello's 

Which  smothers  women  in  a  bed  of  feather. 
But  worthier  of  these  much  more  jolly  fellows, 

When  weary  of  the  matrimonial  tether 
His  head  for  such  a  wife  no  mortal  bothers, 
But  takes  at  once  another,  or  another's. 

XIX. 

Didst  ever  see  a  Gondola?   For  fear 

You  should  not,  I'll  describe  it  you  exactly  : 

'Tis  a  long  cover'd  boat  that's  comnjon  here, 
Carved  at  the  prow,  built  lightly,  but  compactly, 

Row'd  by  two  rowers,  each  call'd  "  Gondolier," 
It  glides  along  the  water,  looking  blackly, 

Just  like  a  coffin  clapt  in  a  canoe, 

Where  none  can  make  out  what  you  say  or  do. 

XX. 

And  up  and  down  the  long  canals  they  go, 

And  under  the  Rialto  shoot  along. 
By  night  and  day,  all  paces,  swift  or  slow. 

And  round  the  theatres,  a  sable  throng, 
They  wait  in  their  dusk  livery  of  woe. 

But  not  to  them  do  woful  things  belong, 
For  sometimes  they  contain  a  deal  of  fun, 
Like  mourning  coaches  when  the  funeral 's  done. 

XXI. 

But  to  my  story. — 'Twas  some  years  ago. 

It  may  be  thirty,  forty,  more  or  less, 
The  carnival  was  at  its  height,  and  so 

Were  all  kinds  of  buffoonery  and  dress; 
A  certain  lady  went  to  see  the  show. 

Her  real  name  I  know  not,  nor  can  guess. 
And  so  we'll  call  her  Laura,  if  30U  please, 
Because  it  slips  into  my  verse  with  ease. 

XXIL 
She  was  not  old,  nor  young,  but  at  the  years 

Which  certain  people  call  a  "  certain  age," 
Which  yet  the  most  uncertain  age  appears. 

Because  I  never  heard,  or  could  engage 


528  BEPI'O. 

A  person  yet  by  prayers,  or  bribes,  or  tears, 

To  iiume,  define  by  sijeech,  or  write  on  page. 
The  period  meant  precisely  l)y  thai  word, — 
Which  surely  is  exceedingly  absurd. 

xxiir. 

Laura  was  blooming  still,  had  made  the  best 
Of  time,  and  time  return'd  the  compliment, 

And  treated  her  genteelly,  so  that,  drest 

She  look'd  extremely  well  where'er  she  went : 

A  pretty  woman  is  a  welcome  guest, 

And  Laura's  brow  a  Irown  had  rarely  bent. 

Indeed  she  shone  all  smiles,  and  seeni'd  to  flatter 

Mankind  with  her  black  eyes  lor  looking  at  her. 

XXJV. 

She  was  a  married  woman  ;  'tis  convenieiit, 

Because  in  Christian  countries  'tis  a  rule 
To  view  their  little  slips  with  e)  es  more  lenient ; 

Whereas,  if  single  ladies  play  the  fool, 
(Unless  within  the  period  intervenient 

A  well-timed  wedding  makes  the  scandal  cool) 
I  dont  know  how  they  ever  can  get  over  it, 
Except  they  manage  never  to  discover  it. 

XXV. 
Her  husband  sail'd  upon  the  Adrialic, 

And  made  some  voyages,  too,  in  other  seas. 
And  when  he  lay  in  quarantine  lor  pratique,' 

(A  forty  days  precaution  'gainrst  disease,) 
His  wile  would  mount,  at  times,  her  highest  attic. 

For  thence  she  could  discern  the  ship  with  ease  : 
He  was  a  merchant  trading  to  Aleppo, 
His  name  Giuseppe,  call'd  more  briefly,  Beppo.  (2) 

XXVI. 

He  was  a  man  as  dusky  as  a  Spaniard, 
Snnljurnt  with  travel,  yet  a  portly  figure  ; 

Though  color'd,  as  it  were  within  a  lanyard. 
He  was  a  person  both  of  sense  and  vigor — 

A  better  seaman  never  yet  did  man  yard  : 

And  s/>e,  although  her  manners  show'd  no  rigor. 

Was  deem'd  a  woman  oli  the  strictest  principle. 

So  much  as  to  be  thought  almost  invincible. 

XXVII. 

But  several  years  elapsed  since  they  had  met ; 

Some  people  thought  the  ship  was  lost,  and  some 
That  he  had  somehow  blunder'd  into  debt, 

And  did  not  like  the  thoughts  of  steering  homej 


,  BEPPO.  529 

And  there  were  severjil  offer'd  any  bet, 

Or  that  he  would,  or  that  he  would  not  come. 
For  most  men  (till  by  losing  render'd  sager) 
Will  back  their  own  opinions  with  a  wager. 

XXVIII. 
'Tis  said  that  their  last  parting  was  pathetic, 

As  partings  often  are  or  ought  to  be, 
And  their  presentiment  was  quite  prophetic  •- 

That  they  should  never  more  each  other  see^ 
(A  sort  of  morbid  feeling,  half  poetic. 

Which  I  have  known  occur  in  two  or  three)  ' 

When  kneeling  on  the  shore  upon  her  sad  knee, 
He  left  this  Adriatic  Ariadne. 

XXIX. 
And  Laura  waited  long,  and  wept  a  little, 

And  thought  of  wearing  weeds,  as  well  she  might; 
She  almost  lost  her  appetite  for  victual, 

And  could  not  sleep  with  ease  alone  at  nigbt ; 
She  deem'd  the  window  frames  and  shutters  brittle 

Against  a  daring  housebreaker  or  sprite, 
And  so  she  thought  it  prudent  to  connect  her 
AVith  a  vice-husband,  chiefly  to  protect  her. 

XXX. 
She  chose,  (and  what  is  there  they  will  not  choose, 

If  only  you  will  but  oppose  their  choice  ?) 
Till  Beppo  should  return  from  his  long  cruise. 

And  bid  once  more  her  faithful  heart  rejoice, 
A  man  some  women  like,  and  yet  abuse — 

A  coxcomb  was  he  by  the  public  voice: 
A  count  of  wealth,  they  said,  as  well  as  quality. 
And  in  his  pleasures  of  great  liberality. 

XXXI. 
And  then  he  was  a  count,  and  then  he  knew 

Music,  and  dancing,  fiddling  French  and  Tuscan;^ 
The  last  not  easy  be  it  known  to  you, 

For  few  Italians  speak  the  right  Etruscan. 
He  was  a  critic  upon  operas,  too. 

And  knew  all  niceties  of  the  sock  and   buskin  : 
And  no  Venetian  audience  could  endure  a 
Song,  scene,  or  air  when  he  cried  "seccatura." 

XXXII. 
His  "bravo"  was  decisive,  for  that  sound 

Hushed  "  acudemie"  sigli'd  in  silent  awe  ; 
The  fiddlers  trembled  as  he  look'd  around, 

For  fear  of  some  false  note's  detected  flaw. 
2  Y 


530  BEPPO. 

The  "  prima  donna's"  tuneful  heart  would  bound, 

Dreadincc  the  deep  dannialion  of  his  "bah!" 
Sopiano,  basso,  even  llie  contra-alto, 
Wish'd  him  live  lathoni  under  the  Rialto. 

XXXIU. 
He  patronized  the  Iniprovi.«alori, 

Na}'  could  himseli'  extemporize  some  stanzas, 
Wrote  rbyn)es,  sanj^- songs,  coidd  also  tell  a  story, 

Sold  picluies,  and  was  siiiil'iil  in  the  dance  as 
Italians  can  be,  Ihough  in  tliis  their  glory 

Must  surely  }ield  the  palm  lo  that  which  France  has  ; 
In  short  he  was  a  perfect  cavaliero, 
And  to  his  very  valet  seeni'd  a  hero. 

XXX IV. 

Then  he  was  faithl'ul,  too,  as  well  as  arflorous  ; 

So  that  no  sort  ol'  female  could  complain. 
Although  they're  now  and  then  a  little  clamorous, 

He  never  put  the  pretty  souls  in  pain  ; 
His  heart  was  one  ol  those  which  most  enamour  us, 

Wax  to  receive,  and  marble  to  relain, 
He  was  a  lover  of  tlie  good  old  school, 
Who  still  become  more  Constant  as  they  cool. 

XXXV. 
No  wonder  such  accomplishments  should  turn 

A  female  head,  hoviever  sage  and  steadj  — 
With  scarce  a  hope  that  Beppo  could  return. 

In  law  he  was  almost  as  good  as  dead,  he 
IS'or  sent,  nor  wrote,  nor  shew'd  the  least  concern, 

And  she  had  waited  several  years  already  ; 
And  really  if  a  man  won't  let  us  know- 
That  he's  alive,  he's  dead,  or  should  be  so. 

XXXVI. 

Besides,  within  the  Alps,  to  every  woman 
(.\lthough,  (jod  knows,  it  is  a  grievous  sin,) 

'Tis,  I  may  say,  permilled  to  have  tno  men  ; 
I  can't  tell  who  fust  brought  the  custom  in. 

But  "  Ca\alier  Serventes"  are  quite  common, 
And  no  one  notices  nor  cares  a  pin  : 

And  we  m;iy  call  this  (not  to  say  the  worst) 

A  seco7id  marriage  which  corrupts  the  Jirsi. 

XXXVfl. 

The  word  was  formerly  a  "  Cicisbeo," 

But  t/iat  is  now  grown  vulgar  and  indecent ; 

The  Spaniauis  call  the  person  a  "  Cortcjo,''  (.S) 

for  the  same  mode  subsists  in  Spain,  tliough  recent ; 


'  BEPPO.  531 

In  short  it  reaches  from  the  Po  to  Teio, 

And  may  perhaps  at  last  be  o'er  the  sea  sent. 
But  Heaven  preserve  Old  England  IVom  such  courses ! 
Or  what  becomes  of  damage  and  divorces  ? 

XXXVIII. 
However,  I  still  think,  with  all  due  deference 

To  the  fair  single  part  of  the  Creation, 
That  married  ladies  should  preserve  the  preference 

In  tete-a-tete  or  general  conversation — 
And  this  I  say  without  peculiar  reference 

To  England,  France  or  any  other  nation — 
Because  they  know  the  world,  and  are  at  ease, 
And  being  natural,  naturally  please. 

XXXIX. 

'Tis  true,  your  budding  ISIiss  is  very  charming, 

But  shy  and  awkward  at  first  coming  out, 
So  much  alarm'd,  that  she  is  quite  alarming. 

All  Giggle,  Blush  ;  half  Pertness,  and  half  Pout ; 
And  glancing  at  Mamma,  for  fear  there's  harm  in 

What  30U,  she,  it,  or  they,  may  be  about. 
The  Nursery  sUil  lisps  out  in  all  they  utter — 
Besides,  they  always  smell  of  bread  and  butter. 

XL. 

But  "Cavalier  Servente"  is  the  phrase 

Used  in  politest  circles  to  express 
Tliis  supernumary  slave,  who  stays 

Close  to  the  lady  as  a  part  of  dress 
Her  word  the  only  law  which  he  obeys. 

His  is  no  sinecure,  as  you  may  guess  ; 
Coach,  servants,  gondola,  he  goes  to  call. 
And  carries  fan  and  tippet,  gloves  and  shawl. 

XLI. 
With  all  its  sinful  doings,  I  must  say, 
That  Italy's  a  pleasant  place  to  me. 
Who  love  to  see  the  Sun  shine  every  day, 

And  vines  (not  nailed  to  walK)  from  tree  to  tree 
Festoon'd,  much  like  the  back  scene  of  a  play, 

Or  meloilrame,  which  people  flock  to  see, 
When  the  first  act  is  ended  by  a  dance 
In  viiu^yards  copied  from  the  south  of  France. 

XLII. 

1  like  on  Autumn  evenings  to  ride  ouv. 

Without  being  forced  to  bid  my  groom  be  sure 

My  cloak  is  round  his  middle  strapp'd  about, 
Because  the  skies  are  not  the  most  secure; 


523  BEPPO. 

I  know  too  that,  if  stopp'd  upon  my  route, 
Where  the  green  alleys  windingly  allure, 
Reeling  with  grapes  red  waggons  choke  the  the  way, — 
In  England  'twould  be  dung,  dust,  or  a  dray. 

XLIII. 

I  also  like  to  dine  on  becafic;is, 

To  see  the  Sun  set,  sure  he'll  rise  to-morrow, 
Not  through  a  misty  morning  twinkling  weak  as 

A  drunken  man's  dead  eye  in  maudlin  sorrow, 
But  wilh  all  Heaven  t'himself ;  that  day  will  brc-ak  as 

Beauteous  as  cloudless,  nor  be  forced  to  borrow 
That  sort  of  farthhig  candlelight  which  glimmers 
Where  reeking  London's  smoky  caldron  sinuners. 

XLIV. 
I  love  the  language,  that  soft  bastard  Latfn, 

Which  melts  like  kisses  from  a  female  mouth. 
And  sounds  as  if  it  should  be  writ  on  satin, 

With  syllables  which  breathe  of  the  sweet  South, 
And  gentle  liquids  gliding  all  so  pat  in, 

That  not  a  single  accent  seems  uncouth, 
Like  our  harsh  northern  whistling,  grunting  guttural, 
Which  we're  obliged  to  hiss,  and  spit,  xind  sputter  all. 

XLV. 
I  like  the  women  too  (forgive  my  folly,) 

From  the  rich  peasant-cheek  of  ruiiy  bronze, 
And  large  black  eyes  that  flash  on  you  a  voliey 

Of  rajs  that  say  a  thousand  things  at  once, 
To  the  high  dama's  brow,  more  melancholy. 

But  clear,  and  with  a  wild  and  liquid  glance, 
Heart  on  her  lips,  and  soul  within  her  eyes. 
Soft  as  her  clime,  and  sunny  as  her  skies. 

XLVI. 
Eve  of  the  land  which  still  is  Paradise  ! 

Italian  beauty  !  didst  thou  not  inspire 
Raphael,  (4)  who  died  in  thy  embrace,  and  vies 

With  all  we  know  of  Heaven,  or  can  desire, 
In  what  he  hath  bequeath'd  us  ? — in  what  guise. 

Though  flashing  Irom  the  fervour  of  the  lyre, 
Would  ivurds  describe  thy  past  and  present  glow. 
While  yet  Canova  can  create  below  ?• 


•  Note. 

(In  talking  thus,  the  writer,  more  especially 
Of  women,  would  be  understood  to  say. 


'  BEPPO.  53S 

xLvir. 

"  Eiisfliind  !  with  all  thy  I'uults  I  love  thee  still," 

I  sail!  at  Calais,  and  have  not  I'ovgot  it; 
I  like  to  speak  and  lucubrate  my  fill ; 

I  like  the  government  (but  that  is  not  it  :) 
I  like  the  freedom  of  the  press  and  quill ; 

I  like  the  Habeas  Corpus  («hen  we've  got  it  ;) 
I  like  a  parliamentary  debate, 
Particularly  wnen  'tis  not  too  lale; 

XLVIII. 
I  like  the  taxes,  when  they're  not  too  many  ; 

1  like  a  seacoal  fire,  wlien  not  too  dear; 
1  like  a  beef-steak,  too,  as  well  as  any  ; 

Have  no  objection  to  a  pot  of  beer  ; 
I  like  the  weather,  when  it  is  not  rainy, 

That  is,  I  like  two  months  of  every  year. 
And  so  God  save  the  Regent,  Clmrcli,  and  King! 
Which  means  that  I  like  all  and  ever}-  thing. 

XLIX. 

Our  standing  army,  and  disbanded  seamen. 

Poor's  rate.  Reform,  my  own,  the  nation's  debt, 

Our  little  riots  just  to  sliew  we  are  free  men, 
Our  trifling  i)ankruplcies  in  the  Gazette, 

Our  cloudy  climate,  and  our  cliilly  women, 
All  these  I  can  forgive,  and  those  forget, 

And  greatly  venerate  our  recent  glories. 

And  wish  thej'  were  not  owing  to  the  Tories. 

L. 

But  to  my  tale  of  Laura,—  for  1  find 

Digression  is  a  sin,  tliat  by  degrees 
Becomes  exceeding  teilious  to  my  mind. 

And,  tliareiore,  may  tlie  reailer  too  displease — 
The  gentle  reailer,  wlio  may  wax  unkind, 

And  caring  little  for  the  author's  ease, 
Insist  on  knowing  what  he  means,  a  hard 
And  hapless  situation  for  a  bard. 

He  speaks  as  a  spectator,  not  officially, 

And  alwajs,  reader,  in  a  modest  way  ; 
Perhaps,  too,  in  no  very  ccrfat  degree  shall  he 

Appear  to  have  oll'ended  in  this  lay. 
Since,  as  all  know,  without  the  sex,  our  sonnets 
Would  seem  unfinisli'il  like  their  untrinmi'd  bonnets.) 

(Signed)  PiiiNXLu's  DtviL. 

2  Y  2 


534  BEPPO. 

LT. 

Oh  that  I  Lad  the  art  of  easy  writing 

What  should  be  easy  reading  !   could  I  scale 

Parnassus,  \vl)ere  the  Muses  sit  inditing 
Those  pretty  poems  never  known  to  fail, 

How  quickly  would  1  print  (the  world  delighting) 
A  Grecian,  Syrian,  or  Assyrian  tale  ; 

And  sell  you,  mixM  with  western  sentimentalism, 

Some  aniples  of  the  finest  Orientalism. 

LIL 

But  I  am  but  a  nameless  sort  of  person, 

(A  broken  Dandy  lately  on  my  travels) 
And  take  i'or  rhyme,  to  hook  my  rambling  verse  on. 

The  first  that  U'alker's  Lexicon  unravels, 
And  when  I  can't  find  tliat,  J  put  a  worse  oij, 

Not  caring  as  I  ought  for  critics'  cavils; 
I've  half  a  mind  to  tumbledown  to  prose, 
But  verse  is  mere  in  fashion — so  here  goes. 

Lirr. 

The  Count  and  Laura  made  their  new  arrangement, 
Which  lasted,  as  arrangements  sometimes  do, 

For  half  a  dozen  years  without  estrangement ; 
They  had  their  little  difterences,  too  ; 

Those  jealous  whills,  which  never  any  change  meant: 
In  such  affairs  there  probably  are  few 

Who  have  not  had  this  pouting  sort  of  squabble. 

From  sinners  of  high  station  to  the  rabble. 

LIV. 

But  on  the  whole,  they  were  a  happy  pair, 
As  happj"  as  unlawlul  love  could  make  them ; 

The  gentleman  was  fond,  the  lady  lair. 

Their  chains  so  slight,  'twas  not  worth  while  to  break  them: 

Tlie  world  beheld  tiseni  with  indulgent  air; 

The  pious  only  wish'd  "  the  devil  take  them!" 

He.  took  them  not ;  Jie  very  often  waits. 

And  leaves  old  sinners  to  be  young  one's  baits. 

LV. 

But  they  were  j'oung:  Oh!  wliat  without  our  youth 
Would  love  be  !    Uhat  would  youth  be  without  love  ! 

Youth  lends  it  joy,  and  sweetness,  vigour,  truth. 
Heart,  soul,  and  all  that  seems  as  from  above  ; 

But,  langiashirig  with  years,  it  grows  uncouth — 
One  of  lew  things  experience  don't  improve, 

AVhich  is,  perhaps,  the  reason  why  old  fellows 

Are  always  so  preposterously  jealous. 


'  BEPPO.  63S 

LVI. 

It  was  the  Carnival,  as  I  have  said 

Some  six  and  thirty  stanzas  back,  and  so 
Laura  the  usual  preparations  made, 

Which  you  tlo  when  your  mind's  made  up  to  go 
To-night  to  Mrs.  Boehm's  masquerade, 

Spectator,  or  partaker  in  the  show  ; 
The  only  dilierence  known  between  the  cases 
Is — /lere,  we  have  six  weeks  of  "  varnish'd  laces." 

LVII. 

Laura,  when  drest,  was  (as  I  sung  before) 

A  pretty  woman  as  was  ever  seen. 
Fresh  as  tiie  Angel  o'er  a  new  inn  door. 

Or  frontispiece  of  a  new  Magazine, 
With  all  the  fashions  which  the  last  month  wore, 

Colour'd,  and  silver  paper  leaved  between 
That  and  the  title-page,  lor  fear  the  press 
Should  soil  with  parts  of  speech  the  parts  of  dress. 

Lvin. 

They  went  to  the  Ridotto  ;  — 'ti?  a  hall 

Where  people  dance,  and  sui),  and  dance  again; 

Its  proper  name,  perhaps,  were  a  masqued  ball. 
But  that's  of  Mo  importance  to  my  strain  ; 

' Tis  (on  a  smaller  scale)  like  our  Vauxhali, 
Excepting  that  it  can't  be  spoilt  by  rain  : 

The  company  is  "  mix'd"  (the  phrase  I  quote  is 

As  much  as  saying,  they're  below  your  notice)  ; 

LIX. 

For  a  "  mix'd  coiiii)any''  implies  that,  save 

Yourself  and  Iriends,  and  half  a  hundred  more, 
Vv'hom  you  may  bow  to  without  lookmg  grave, 

The  rest  are  but  a  vulgar  set,  the  bore 
Of  public  places,  where  they  basely  brave 

The  fashionaiile  stare  of  twenty  score 
Of  well-bred  pt-rsons,  call'd  "  (he  fForld  ;"  but  I, 
Although  I  know  them,  really  don't  know  why. 

LX. 
This  is  the  case  in  Englanil  ;  at  least  was 

During  tlie  dynasty  of  Dandies,  now 
Perchaii(-a  succcLnlcd  by  some  otlier  class 

Oi  imitated  imitators  :  -liow 
Jrre;)arably  soon  decline,  alas  I 

Tiie  demagogues  of  lashion  :  all  below 
Is  Irail ;  how  easily  the  world  is  lost 
By  love,  or  war,  and  now  and  then  by  frost! 


536  BEPPO. 

LXI. 

Cruf^hM  was  Napoleon  by  Uie  iiorlhern  Thor, 

Who  knock'd  his  army  ilowii  with  icy  hammer, 
Stopp'd  by  the  elements,  lilie  a  whaler,  or 

A  bliin'derinp:  novice  in  his  new  French  grammar  ; 
Good  cause  had  he  to  doubt  the  chance  of  war, 

And  as  lor  Fortune — but  I  dare  not  d— n  her, 
Because,  were  I  to  ponder  to  infinity, 
'Die  more  I  should  believe  in  her  divinity. 

LXII. 
She  rules  the  present,  past,  and  all  to  be  yet, 

She  gives  us  luck  in  lotteries,  love,  and  marriage  ; 
I  cannot  say  that  she's  done  much  for  me  yet ; 

Nor  that  F  mean  her  bounties  to  disparage, 
U'e-'ve  not  yet  closed  accounts,  and  we  shaU  see  yet 

How  much  she'll  make  amends  lor  (last  miscarriage  ; 
Meantime  the  goddess  I'll  no  more  importune. 
Unless  to  thank  hsr  when  she's  made  my  fortune. 

LXIH. 
To  turn,— and  to  return  ;—  the  devil  take  it ! 

This  story  slips  for  ever  through  my  fingers. 
Because,  jiist  as  the  stanza  likes  to  make  it. 

It  needs  must  be— and  so  it  rather  lingers  ; 
This  form  of  verse  began,  I  can't  well  break  it. 

But  must  keep  time  and  tune  like  public  singers  ; 
But  if  I  once  get  through  my  present  measure, 
I'll  take  another  when  I'm  next  at  leisure. 

LXIV. 
They  went  to  the  Ridotto  ('tis  a  place 

To  which  I  mean  to  so  myself  to-morrow, 
Just  to  divert  my  thoughts  a  little  space. 

Because  I'm  rather  hippish,  and  may  borrow 
Some  spirits,  guessing  at  \^hat  kind  of  face 

May  lurk  beneath  each  mask,  and  as  my  sorrow 
Slackens  its  pace  sometimes,  I'll  make,  or  find. 
Something  shall  leave  it  half  an  hour  behind.) 

LXV. 
Now  Laura  moves  along  the  joyous  crowd, 

Smiles  in  her  eyes,  and  simpers  on  her  lips  ; 
To  some  she  whispers,  others  speaks  aloud  ; 

To  some  she  curtsies,  and  to  some  sIir  dip'^, 
Complains  of  warmth,  and  tliis  complaint  avow'd, 

Her  lover  brings  the  lemonade,  she  sips  ; 
She  then  surveys,  condemns,  but  pities  still 

Her  dearest  friends  for  being  drest  so  ill. 


BEPPO.  53T 

LXVI. 

One  has  false  curls,  another  too  much  pahit, 
A  third— where  did  she  buy  that  irightliil  turban  ? 

A  fourth's  so  pale  she  fear's  she's  going  to  faint, 
A  fifth's  looks  vulgar,  dowdyish,  and  suburban, 

A  sixth's  white  sillc  has  got  a  yellow  taint, 

A  seventh's  thin  muslin  surely  will  be  her  bane. 

And  lo  !  an  eight  appears, — "  I'll  see  no  more  !" 

For  fear,  like  Banquo's  kings,  they  reach  a  score. 

LXVII. 

Meantime,  while  she  was  thus  at  others  gazing. 

Others  were  levelling  their  looks  at  her  ; 
She  heard  the  men's  haU'-whisper'd  mode  of  praising, 

And,  till  'twas  done,  determined  not  to  stir  ; 
The  woman  only  thought  it  quite  amazing 

That  at  her  time  of  life  so  many  were 
Admirers  still, — but  men  are  so  debased. 
Those  brazen  creatures  always  suit  their  taste. 

LXVIII. 

For  my  part,  now,  I  ne'er  could  understand 

Why  naughty  women — but  I  won't  discuss 
A  thing  which  is  a  scandal  to  the  land, 

I  only  don't  see  why  it  should  be  thus  ; 
And  if  i  were  but  in  a  gown  and  band. 

Just  to  entitle  me  to  make  a  fuss, 
I'd  preach  on  this  till  Wilberforce  and  Romilly 
Should  quote  in  their  next  speeches  from  my  homily. 

LXIX. 

While  Laura  thus  was  seen  and  seeing,  smiling. 

Talking,  she  knew  not  why  and  cared  not  what. 
So  tliat  her  female  friends,  with  envy  broiling, 

Beheld  her  airs  and  triumph,  and  all  that ; 
And  well  drest  males  still  kept  before  her  filing. 

And  passing  bow'd  and  mingled  witli  her  chat; 
More  than  the  rest  one  person  seem'd  to  stare 
With  pertinacity  that's  rather  rare. 

LXX. 
He  was  a  Turk,  the  colour  of  mahogany ; 

And  Laura  saw  him,  and  at  first  was  glad. 
Because  the  Turks  so  much  admire  philogyny, 

Although  their  usage  of  their  wives  is  sad  ; 
'Tis  said  they  use  no  better  than  a  dog  any 

Poor  woman,  whom  they  purchase  like  a  pad  : 
They  have  a  number,  though  they  ne'er  exhibit  'em, 
Four  wives  by  law,  and  concubines  "  ad  libitum." 


538  BEPPO. 

LXXI. 

Tliey  loi^k  lliem  up,  and  veil,  ami  c:iiai\i  lliem  dail}-, 

They  scarcely  can  behold  their  male  relations, 
So  that  their  moments  do  not  pass  so  a:aily 

As  is  supposed  the  case  with  northern  nations  ; 
Confinement,  too,  must  make  (hem  look  quite  palely 

And  as  the  Turks  abhor  long  conversations, 
Their  davs  are  either  past  in  doing  nothing, 
Or  bathing,  nursing,  making  love,  or  clothing. 

LXXI  I. 
They  cannot  read,  and  so  don't  lisp  in  criticism  ; 

Nor  write,  and  so  (hey  don't  afiect  the  muse; 
Were  never  caught  in  epigram  or  witticism. 

Have  TK)  romances,  sermons,  plays,  reviews, — 
In  harams  learning  soon  would  make  a  pretty  schism 

But  luckily  these  beauties  are  no  "  btues," 
No  bustling  Botherbys  have  they  to  show  'em 
"That  charming  passage  in  the  last  new  poem." 

LXXIII. 
No  solemn,  antique  gentleman  of  rlwme, 

Who  having  angled  all  his  life  for' fame, 
And  getting  but  a  nibble  at  a  time, 

Still  fussily  keeps  fishing  on,  the  same 
Small  "Triton  of  the  mirtnows,"  the  sublime 

Of  mediocrity,  the  furious  tame. 
The  echo's  echo,  usher  of  the  school 
Of  female  wits,  boy  bards— in  short,  a  fool ! 

LXXIV. 

A  stalking  oracle  of  awful  phrase. 

The  approving  "  Good  I"  (by  no  means  good  in  law) 
Humming  like  flies  around  the  newest  blaze, 

The  bluest  of  bluebottles  you  e'er  saw. 
Teasing  with  blame,  excruciating  with  praise, 

Gorging  the  little  fame  he  gets  all  raw, 
Translating  tongues  he  knows  not  even  by  letter. 
And  sweating  plays  so  middling,  bad  were  belter. 

LXXV. 

One  hates  an  author  that's  all  authm;  fellows 
In  foolscap  uniforms  turned  up  with  ink. 

So  very  anxious,  clever,  fine,  and  jealous. 

One  don't  know  what  to  say  to  them,  or  think. 

Unless  to  puff  them  with  a  pair  of  bellows  ; 
Of  coxcombry's  worst  coxcombs  e'en  the  pink 

Are  preferable  to  these  shreds  of  paper, 

The.se  unquench'd  snufBngs  of  the  midnight  taper. 


BEPPO.  539 

LXXV'I. 

Of  these  same  we  see  several,  and  of  others, 

Men  of  the  world,  who  know  the  world  like  men, 

S-tt,  R— s,  M— re,  and  all  tiie  better  brothers. 
Who  think  of  something  else  besides  the  pen, 

But  for  the  children  of  the  "  mighty  mother's," 
The  would-be  wits,  and  caaH-be  gentlemen, 

I  leave  them  to  their  daily  «  tea  is  ready," 

Smug  coterie,  and  literary  lady. 

LXXVII. 

The  poor  dear  Mussulwomen  whom  I  mention 
Have  none  of  these  instructive  pleasant  people, 

And  one  would  seem  to  Ihem  a  new  invention. 
Unknown  as  bells  within  a  Turkish  steeple  ; 

I  think  'twould  almost  be  worth  while  to  pension 
(Though  best-sown  projects  very  often  reap  ill) 

A  missionary  author,  just  to  preach 

Our  Christian  usage  of  the  parts  of  speech. 

LXXVIII. 

No  ch.emistry  for  them  unfolds  her  gasses. 

No  metaphysics  are  let  loose  in  lectures, 
No  circulating  library  amasses 

Religious  novels,  moral  tales,  and  strictures 
Upon  the  living  manners,  as  they  pass  us  ; 

No  exhibition  glares  with  annual  pictures  ; 
They  stare  not  on  the  stars  from  out  (heir  attics, 
Nor  deal  (thank  God  for  that  !)  in  Mathematics. 

LXXIX. 

Why  I  thank  God  for  that  is  no  great  matter, 
I  have  my  reasons,  j-ou  no  doubt  suppose. 
And,  as,  perhaps,  they  would  not  highly  flatter, 
I'll  keep  Ihem  for  my  life  (to  come)  in  prose  ; 

I  lear  I  have  a  little  turn  for  satire. 
And  yet  methiiiks  the  older  that  one  grows 

Inclines  us  more  to  laugh  than  scold,  though  laughter 

Leaves  us  so  doubly  serious  shortly  after. 

LXXX. 

Oh,  Mirth  and  Innocence  !  Oh,  Milk  and  Water  ! 

Y'e  hapjiy  mixtures  of  more  hai)i)y  da\s  ! 
In  these  sad  centuries  of  sin  and  slaughter. 

Abominable  man  no  more  allajs 
His  thirst  with  such  pure  beverage.     No  matter, 

I  love  you  both,  and  both  shall  have  my  praise  : 
Oh,  for  old  Saturn's  reign  of  sugar-candy  !  — 
Meantime  I  drink  to  your  return  in  brandy. 


liO  •  BEPPO. 

LXXXI. 

Our  Laura's  Turk  still  kept  his  eyes  upon  her, 

Less  in  tlie  Mussulman  than  Christian  way, 
Which  seems  to  say,  "  Madam,  I  do  .vou  honour, 

*'  And  while  1  please  to  stare,  you'll  please  to  stay  :' 
Could  staring  win  a  woman,  this  had  won  her. 

But  Laura  could  not  thus  be  led  astray  } 
She  had  sioovl  lire  too  long  and  well,  to  boargle 

Even  at  tliis  stranger's  most  outlandish  ogle. 

LXXXIL 

The  morning  now  was  on  the  point  of  breaking, 

A  turn  ol"  time  at  which  I  would  aclvise 
Ladies  who  have  been  dancing,  or  partaking 

In  any  other  kind  of  exercise, 
To  make  their  preparations  for  forsaking  ^ 

The  ball-room  ere  the  sun  begins  to  rise, 
Because  when  once  the  lamps  and  candles  fail, 

His  blushes  make  them  look  a  little  pale. 
LXXXIIL 
I've  seen  some  balls  and  revels  in  my  time, 

And  staid  them  over  for  some  silly  reason. 
And  then  I  look'd,  (I  hope  it  was  no  crime,) 

To  see  w  hat  lady  best  stood  out  the  season  ; 
And  though  I've  seen  some  thousands  in  their  prime. 

Lovely  and  pleasing,  and  who  still  may  please  on, 
I  never  saw  but  one,  (the  stars  withdrawn,) 
Whose  bloom  could  after  dancing  dare  the  dawn. 

LXXXIV. 
The  name  of  this  Aurora  I'll  not  mention, 

Although  I  might,  lor  she  was  nought  to  me 
More  than  the  iiatent  work  of  God's  invention, 

A  charming  woman,  whom  we  like  to  see  : 
But  writing  names  would  merit  reprehension. 

Yet  if  you  like  to  find  out  this  fair  she, 
At  the  next  London  or  Parisian  ball 
You  still  may  mark  her  cheek,  out-blooming  all. 

LXXXV. 
Laura,  who  knew  it  would  not  do  at  all 

To  meet  tlie  day-light  alter  seven  hours  sitting 
Among  three  thousand  people  at  a  ball. 

To  make  her  curtsy  thought  it  right  and  fitting  ; 
The  Count  was  at  her  elbow  with  her  shawl, 

And  they  tlie  room  were  on  the  point  of  quitting. 
When  lo  !  those  cursed  gondoliers  had  got 
Just  in  the  very  place  where  they  should  no'. 


BEPPO.  £41 

Lxxxvr. 

Ill  this  they're  like  our  co.ichnien,  and  the  cause 
Is  much  the  same — the  crowd,  and  pulling,  hauling, 

With  blasphemies  enough  to  break  their  jaws, 
The}-  make  a  never  intermitting  bawling. 

At  home  our  Bow -street  gemmen  keep  the  laws. 
And  here  a  sentrj'  stands  within  your  calling. 

But  tor  all  that,  there  is  a  deal  of  swearing, 

And  nauseous  words  past  mentioning  or  bearing. 

LXXXVII. 

The  Count  and  Laura  found  their  boat  at  last, 

And  homeward  floated  o'er  the  silent  tide. 
Discussing  all  the  dances  gone  and  past ; 

The  dancers  and  their  dresses,  too,  beside  ; 
Some  litle  scandals  eke  :  but  all  aghast 

(  As  to  their  palace  stairs  the  rowers  glide, ) 
Sate  Laura  by  the  side  of  her  Adorer, 
When  lo  !  the  Mussulman  was  there  before  her. 

LKXXVin. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  Count,  with  brow  exceeding  grave, 
"  Vour  unexpected  presence  here  will  make 

"  It  necessary  for  myself  to  crave 

"  Its  import ;  but  perhaps  'tis  a  mistake  ; 

"  I  hope  it  is  so  ;  and  at  once  to  wave 

"  All  compliment,   I  hope  so  for  your  sake  ; 

"  You  understand  my  meaning,  or  you  nfiaU." 

"  Sir,"  (quoth  the  Turk)  "  'tis  no  mistake  at  all.  ■ 

LXXXIX. 

"  That  lady  is  my  wifeV    JMuch  wonder  paints 
The  la-ly's  changing  cheek,  as  well  it  migut ; 

But  where  an  Englisliwoman  sometimes  faints, 
Italian  females  don't  ilo  so  outright ; 

They  only  call  a  little  on  their  saint*. 

And  then  come  to  themselves  almost,  or  quite  ; 

Wliich  saves  much  liartshorn,  salts,  and  sprinkling  luces;- 

And  cutting  stays,  us  usual  in  such  cases. 

XC. 

She  said, — What  could  she  say  ?    Wliy  not  a  word  : 

But  the  Count  courteously  invited  in 
The  stranger,  much  appeased  by  what  he  heard  : 

"  Such  things,  perhaps,  we'd  best  discuss  within," 
Said  he,  "  don't  let  us  make  ourselves  absurd 

"  In  public,  by  a  scene,  nor  raise  a  tiin, 
"  For  then  the  chief  and  only  satisfactiim 

"  Will  be  much  quizzing  on  the  whole  transaction." 

2Z 


5*2  BEPPO. 

XCI. 

They  enter 'd,  and  for  coffee  call'd — it  came, 
A  beverage  for  Turks  and  Christians  both, 

Although  the  way  they  make  it 's  not  the  same. 
Now  Laura,  much  recover'd,  or  less  loth 

To  s|)eak,  cries  "  Beppo  !  what 's  your  pagan  name  ? 
"  Bless  me  !  your  beard  is  of  amazing  growth  ! 

"  And  how  came  you  to  keep  away  so  long  ? 

"  Are  you  not  sensible  'twas  very  wrong  ? 

XCII. 
"  And  are  you  really,  iruly,  imw  a  Turk  ? 

"  \S\\\\  any  other  women  did  you  wive  ? 
"  Is't  true  they  use  their  fingers  for  a  fork  ? 

"  Well,  that's  the  prettiest  shawl — as  I'm  alive  ! 
"  You'll  give  it  me  ?    They  say  you  eat  7\p  pork. 

"  And  how  so  many  years  did  you  contrive 
<'  To — Bless  me  !  did  I  ever?  No,  I  never 
•'  Saw  a  man  grown  so  yellow  !    How's  your  liver  ? 

xciir. 

"  Beppo!  that  beard  of  yours  becomes  you  not ; 

"  It  shall  be  shaved  before  you're  a  day  older  : 
"  Why  do  you  wear  it  ?    Oh  !  I  had  forgot — 

"  Pray  don't  you  think  the  weather  here  is  colder  ? 
"  How  do  I  look  ?    You  sha'nt  stir  from  this  spot 

"  In  that  queer  dress,  for  fear  that  some  beholder 
"  Shoulil  fiiiil  you  out,  and  make  the  story  known. 
"  How  short  your  hair  is  !    Lord  !   how  gray  it's  grown  ! 

XCIV. 
What  answer  Beppo  made  to  these  demands 

Is  more  than  I  know.     He  was  cast  away 
About  where  Troy  stood  once,  and  nothing  stands  ; 

Became  a  slave  of  course,  and  for  his  pay 
Had  bread  anel  bastinadoes,  till  some  bands 

Of  pirates  landing  in  a  neighbouiing  bay, 
He  join'd  the  rogues  and  prosper'd,  and  became 
A  renegado  of  indifferent  fame. 

xcv. 

But  he  grew  rich,  and  with  his  riches  grew  so 

Keen  the  desire  to  see  iiis  home  again. 
He  thought  himself  in  duty  bound  to  do  so, 

And  not  be  always  lliieving  on  th?  main  ; 
Lonely  he  felt,  at  times,  as  Robin  Crusoe, 

And  so  he  hired  a  vessel  come  IVoni  Spain, 
Bound  for  Cori'u  :  she  was  a  fine  polacca, 
Mann'd  with  twelve  hands  pnd  laden  with  tobacco. 


/  BEPPO.  '  «43 

xcvr. 

Himself,  and  much  (heaven  knows  how  gotten)  cash, 
He  then  embark'd  with  risk  of  life  and  limb, 

And  got  clear  off,  although  the  attempt  was  rash  ; 
He  said  that  Providence  protected  hini — 

For  my  part,  I  say  nothing,  lest  we  clash 

In  our  opinions  : — well,  the  ship  was  trim,  ^ 

Set  sail,  and  kept  her  reckoning  fairly  on. 

Except  three  days  of  calm  when  off  Cape  Bonn. 

XCVII. 

They  reached  the  island,  he  transferr'd  his  lading. 
And  self  and  live-stock,  to  another  bottom. 

And  pass'd  for  a  true  Turkej-merchant,  trading 
With  goods  of  various  names,  but  Pve  forgot  'em. 

However  he  got  off  by  this  evading. 

Or  else  the  people  would  perhaps  have  shot  him  ; 

And  thus  at  Venice  lauded  to  reclaim 

His  wife,-  religion,  house,  aud  Christian  name. 

XCVllf. 

His  wife  received,  the  patriarch  re-baptized  him, 

(He  made  the  church  a  present  by  the  way)  ; 
He  then  threw  oft'  the  garments  which  disguised  him. 

And  borrow'd  the  Count's  small-clothes  for  a  day  : 
His  friends  the  more  for  bis  long  absence  prized  him, 

Finding  he'd  wherewithal  to  make  them  gay. 
With  dinners,  where  he  oft  became  the  laugh  of  them, 
For  stories— Ijut  /don't  believe  the  half  of  them. 

XCTX. 
Whate'er  his  youth  had  suffer 'd,  his  old  age 

With  wealth  and  talking  made  him  some  amends ; 
Though  Laura  sometimes  put  him  in  a  rage, 

I've  heard  the  Count  and  he  were  always  friends. 
My  pen  is  at  the  bottom  of  a  page, 

Wliich  being  fmish'd,  here  the  story  ends  ; 
'Tis  to  be  wish'd  it  had  been  sooner  done. 

But  stories  somehow  lengthen  when  begun. 


NOTES  TO  BEPPO. 


(1) 

Like  the  lost  Pleiad  seen  no  more  below. 
"  QuEB  septeni  dici  sex  tamen  esse  solent."    Ovid. 
(2) 
"  Hix  name  Giuseppe,  call'd  mwe  hrivfiy  Beppo." 
Beppo  is  the  Joe  of  the  Italian  Joseph. 

(3) 

<'  The  Spaniayds  call  the  person  a  "  Cortejo. 

"  Cortejo'^   is  pronounced   "  CorteAo,"  with  an  aspimte, 

according  to  the  Arabesque  guttural.   It  means  what  there  is  as 

yet  no  precise  name  for  in  England,  though  the  practice  is  as 

common  as  in  any  tramontane  country  whatever. 

(■1) 
"  Rophaet,  n^ho  died  in  thy  embrace." 
For  the  received  accounts  of  the  cause  of  Raphael's  death, 
see  his  Lives. 


END  OF  VOL.  L 


^' 


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